


Parseltongue is Really Very Ordinary

by BrilliantLady



Series: Perfectly Normal [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chamber of Secrets, Gen, Manipulative Dumbledore, Manipulative Harry, Pagan Festivals, Parseltongue, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Society, Religion, Sane Voldemort, Smart Harry, Snakes, Wizarding Traditions, magical theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 120,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6027559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrilliantLady/pseuds/BrilliantLady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s been learning about pure-blood culture, with Pansy’s help, and trying to blend in as an ordinary wizard. But will all his attempts at seeming normal be ruined when they find out he can speak to snakes? His Slytherin friends take the news differently than the Gryffindors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer Studies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over summer, Harry makes plans to continue his mundane education.

**_July 1992_ **

Dudley’s summer homework and some open textbooks (mostly Harry’s copies) were spread out all over the Dursleys’ coffee table, and the piles spilled onto the floor next to it. The television was blaring away in the background but Dudley and Harry were mostly ignoring it – the show was a repeat so Dudley was only occasionally distracted by it.

“…So you see the book _On the_ _Origin of Species_ was published over 20 years after the _Slavery Abolition Act_ _of 1833_ , which you should note took about ten years to be enforced properly. The Act was being enforced right at the start of Queen Victoria’s reign, but Darwin was well into her rule. There’s nothing wrong with working in a reference to it, but it wasn’t the inspiration for the Act. Now for a good quote for your essay on slavery, here in England in 1785 we have Cowper writing-” Harry explained, pointing at a timeline he’d sketched to illustrate his points.

“What’s this, then?” interrupted Uncle Vernon with a grunt on his return home from work, the door closing with a slam behind him, making Harry jump. Vernon wasn’t pleased to see the mess in the lounge, when he really just wanted to sit down and watch the telly.

“It’s my summer homework, dad,” said Dudley, matter-of-factly. “I have to get it done some time, and Harry’s finished all his chores for today.” It was true. Thanks in large part to Dudley’s somewhat grudging intervention Harry’s workload had halved to just having to do gardening, cooking, dishes, and vacuuming.

“Dudley’s showing me all about what he’s studying at school,” gushed Harry. “He’s so kind to teach me about more _normal_ subjects. He’s good at explaining things. I’m learning all about British history.”

“Hmph,” said Vernon, and smiled. “Good work then, son.” He ruffled Dudley’s hair, and ignored Harry. “But don’t spend all afternoon on it – there’s plenty of time to finish it later.” The lounge room being productively occupied, he lumbered off to the kitchen instead in search of a small snack. Perhaps a couple of chicken sandwiches and some crisps.

After he’d left the room, Harry saw an unusually thoughtful expression on Dudley’s face. “That wasn’t really true, though. Was it, Harry?” Dudley asked, sounding reflective.

Harry hesitated. Dudley had never even begun to question the order of things before. He’d always been happy before to take credit where credit wasn’t due.

“Well, you’re their son. They want you to be the smartest – the best. And I’d rather not upset them. Or you. I’m happy enough just being average.”

“I guess. Except for Maths.”

“Well, I like Maths. You get a question, and the answer is simple. Nothing’s hidden, nothing’s hard to figure out. You’re right or you’re wrong – the teacher’s opinion doesn’t even matter. And grades are easier to figure out – you know what you’re going to get as soon as the test is finished.”

“Doesn’t matter anymore since you’re at that magic school. You can’t beat me at _anything_ now because the subjects are all different,” said Dudley smugly

“You know Dudley, sometimes you’re actually very smart.”

Dudley’s face scrunched up as he scowled and raised an angry fist.

Harry talked quickly. “No! No! I really mean it! I hadn’t really thought about it that way before. Honest, I swear by Merlin.”

“Merlin?” said a puzzled Dudley, lowering his fist.

“Oops. Forget I said that. But honest, I mean it - that was a really helpful thing to say. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon weren’t impressed when I told them my grades from Hogwarts. They told me last week that they actually want me to do better at Hogwarts so my magic gets under control faster. I could hardly believe it. I thought they were joking – Uncle Vernon yelled at me. Aunt Petunia said the more my mum studied, the less ‘accidents’ she had. But I was worried you’d be mad at me if I did better. I mean, I’d have to do what they say, but I didn’t want you upset, you know?”

“Nah. I don’t care what you do at magic school. Unless you start boxing. Don’t do boxing - I’m starting that. Or computers – I’m good at that. Smeltings has these great new computers and the teacher’s pretty cool.”

“They don’t do boxing at Hogwarts. No sports at all actually apart from Quidditch. Which I already quit. And they don’t have a single computer in the whole school.”

Dudley was satisfied. And so was Harry. He was completely free to increase his grades at Hogwarts as much as he liked. And he knew the best way to do it – slowly. If you took them up too fast, then people thought you were cheating. So this year, he’d take half his subjects up to Exceeds Expectations, then in Third Year he’d aim for all Es (except for his favourites of Herbology and DADA). He might even try to increase them all to Outstandings in his Fourth and Fifth Years, just in time for OWLs. They were the first grades that really mattered. Hopefully the Dursleys would still be tolerating him doing well – that would make things easier. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to do that well, though. What was the point of standing out so much? He’d have to find out which subjects were important for learning medical magic and focus on working up to good grades for those ones by OWL year and maybe getting more average grades in the leftover subjects – he did want to keep open the option of becoming a Healer. That was kind of what he’d been planning to do at Stonewall High – keep average grades right up until when it mattered for getting into medicine at university... to get a scholarship and leave the Dursleys behind him. Having their current approval for good grades just pushed his schedule up.

“Hey Dudley, what if I _did_ study some normal subjects too?” he asked tentatively. Being a Healer would be cool, but Harry hadn’t forgotten his original dream of becoming a doctor – either an emergency surgeon or a paediatrician (he hadn’t decided). Clearly the magical world wasn’t going to support him in reaching that goal – only magical-ghetto professions.

“What? Are you leaving the magic school?”

“No, I just thought… since I’m studying stuff with you anyway, it’d be good to work towards getting my GCSEs. Maybe A levels too, eventually. I don’t want to be stuck with no qualifications – never graduating properly so I couldn’t do any normal job, ever. Except you know, working in a fish and chip shop or something.”

Dudley looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I can see that would suck. But I don’t want you beating me. Maybe you could do different subjects to me? And how would you even do it, stuck at freak school all year?”

“I couldn’t do _all_ different subjects – I’d still have to do English and Maths for example. And if I study some stuff the same as you, like French instead of Spanish, then I can help you better during the year – less homework for me. I was thinking of studying long distance.”

Dudley made a face. It looked like thinking so much was hurting him. “I dunno,” he said eventually. “Just don’t beat me at any stuff I’m good at.”

“No sports or computers, I promise. And no creative stuff like art or woodwork.”

“Yeah, I suppose. But if you get too snotty about it and show me up in front of mum and dad I’ll thump you and flush your head in the loo. GCSEs are ages away anyway.” Dudley shrugged dismissively, and got Harry to keep working with him on his history essay. Harry wasn’t writing the whole thing, but he _was_ giving Dudley a detailed outline of the structure needed and several key points and quotes to include. Dudley thought Harry was way better at this than his tutor at Smeltings, who expected him to do _all_ the planning _and_ the writing. What was a tutor _for_ if not for that? And it was nice to be around someone smaller than him again, for a change. He didn’t get the respect at Smeltings that he felt he deserved.

Harry spent all of his Muggle money on phone calls in the first couple of days of the summer holidays. Not phoning friends – he’d forgotten to get Hermione’s phone number, and the others didn’t have phones (or in most cases, even know what they were). He was in fact phoning various distance education providers and home school organisations to see what his best options were, and how he could juggle studying normal subjects officially. His story that he gave out was that he was living with an elderly deaf relative on a small farm in Scotland during the school year, and neither he nor his Grandma Dorea were impressed with the local school’s educational standards. He wanted to study in a way that would work around looking after his elderly grandmother at home, and having limited access to a phone (as she didn’t have one due to her trouble in using one and a general dislike of modern technology). She also wanted him to study for his GCSEs and A-levels rather than the Scottish Certificate of Education’s Standard Grade and Higher Grade qualifications; all of those factors together necessitated distance education.

After some research at the library and consultation with various people he decided that he would start studying for his GCSEs in Hogwarts’ Third Year, as the organisation he liked best, _Oxford Home Schooling_ , preferred students to start studying for those when they were thirteen. Also, communicating with his assigned tutor by phone (which seemed an important part of the process) would be easier when he was allowed to leave Hogwarts for Hogsmeade visits – and that wasn’t until Third Year. He might need to sneak off to a Muggle area to find a phone, of course. Waiting a year would also give him an extra year to catch up with normal subjects. He didn’t really enjoy admitting it to himself, but in fact he wasn’t doing as well as he would like at the moment. Working with Dudley didn’t exactly demand high standards – not like working for perfect Cs had required. And Hogwarts work took up a lot of time last year.

They’d suggested he sign up to learn the Year 9 curriculum this year, if his goal was to start working for GCSEs next year, and that seemed wise (if tiring). He decided to just stick with the basics of English, Maths, and Science. Dudley’s work would probably keep him up to date with the other subjects. But Dudley’s Maths and Science homework tended to be… less than challenging.

It made him wonder for the first time what the Dursleys had been telling people about where he went to school. After he’d spent a week or so gathering all his information (including some brochures and forms that were mailed to him) he was ready to talk to the Dursleys. Having already cleared the air with Dudley, he decided to approach Aunt Petunia next. She tended to be slightly more approving of his academic accomplishments compared to Uncle Vernon.

He raised the topic early one Saturday morning as they ate some fruit and cereal for breakfast (Harry just had water on his cereal, which wasn’t so bad once you got used to it). Dudley and Uncle Vernon were having a bit of a lie in.

“Aunt Petunia? Do you remember how you gave me that very good advice about not getting stuck in a magical ghetto?”

She looked surprised by the topic. “You remember me saying that? It’s still true. Nothing you can do about it now, more’s the pity.”

“Well that’s just it. I’ve been thinking about it, and there kind of is a bit of a way to escape it.”

She put her spoon down next to her bowl and looked intently at him. “I’m all ears, Harry.”

“So, I can’t leave Hogwarts. Well, not yet. And I do need to get my magic under control – not just for me but to protect you all. But that doesn’t have to mean giving up on studying regular school work.”

“Vernon says you’ve been working with Dudley,” she mused.

“Yes, he’s been a big help! Remember how he got me some textbooks at Christmas?”

She nodded.

“But it’s not going to be enough to graduate properly. And Aunt Petunia,” he said seriously, “I don’t want my options to be limited to jobs in the magical world. So I’ve been looking into home schooling and distance education, and I’ve found a great place that will mail out assignments and work for me to do. With no intrusive check-ups or awkward questions. And in a few years when it’s time to do my GCSEs, I can show up at any one of a number of examination centres and do the tests there.”

“That sounds… like a good idea,” she said approvingly, but hesitantly. “But like it might be expensive. I don’t see we could afford another set of private school fees. And Vernon would never agree.”

Harry had already planned out his arguments and lies for this one. “Well luckily my parents left me a small amount of money – not a lot - there’s just a little set aside as a small educational scholarship that can only be spent on secondary school expenses. The paperwork has been horrible, I have to show them every single receipt and can’t even spend a knut… uh… penny on something like extra note paper – but it’s been paying for Hogwarts fees and basic expenses like uniforms. I think I can get the goblins to cover regular schooling fees too though. You wouldn’t have to pay anything, Aunt Petunia. All you’d have to do is sign the forms for me.”

“Goblins,” muttered Aunt Petunia.

“They run the bank. You know, _their_ bank.”

“She never left _me_ anything, did she? And there’s no money for anything else? You know things are tight here sometimes,” Aunt Petunia asked optimistically. “Some money to cover your living expenses would be good.”

 _Money to cover a new car for Uncle Vernon and a bigger television for Dudley, you mean,_ thought Harry cynically and jealously.

“No, I’m sorry Aunt Petunia. They’re really strict on that. I couldn’t even get extra money to buy lunch when I was out with Professor McGonagall that time we shopped for last year’s school supplies,” said Harry, looking earnest and repentant, or at least a good facsimile of those emotions. “I don’t think mum or dad left anything else. The war used up all of their money, and their house was apparently completely blown up by the Dark Lord. But if I ever manage to get anything extra out of those goblins I promise I will share it, Aunt Petunia.”

Luckily Aunt Petunia was convinced, and since there was no effort or expense required on her part, signed the home schooling forms he’d need to get started. Apparently they’d simply told the neighbours they’d decided to send Harry to Smeltings too. As no other local children Dudley’s age had gone there, there was no-one to contradict the story. Reading between the lines Harry thought his aunt and uncle seemed to have been enjoying boasting of sending two children to an expensive, exclusive private school (and for half what their acquaintances would guess it would cost). Harry was happy to go along with that story, and briefed Aunt Petunia on what they’d be telling the home school organisation. His aunt was going to talk to Uncle Vernon for him, which was a weight off his mind. Sometimes it was easy to tell when Uncle Vernon was working up into a rage – he’d go all quiet, or his face would start going red and his fists would tense. Other times he could be quite nasty while still smiling – it made his reactions harder to guess at and manage.

Harry had it all planned out now. This year he would work on getting up to speed on core subjects with home schooling by correspondence, and keep up to date with Dudley’s work. On the magical side of things he would practice flying on his broomstick, and researching stealth and transportation charms to help him sneak away from Hogsmeade next year as needed. He’d also have a year to think about his subject choices and research what you needed to get into medicine at university… or to be a Healer. Next year he’d start his GCSEs (as well as his Hogwarts electives), and do them over Third and Fourth Year at Hogwarts, trying to get at least a couple done in Fourth Year so that he could concentrate on OWLs in Fifth Year. After that, a few A levels. He was a bit fuzzy on how to manage that at the moment, but hoped he could get them done in Sixth Year. Apparently A level Chemistry (which he needed to get into medicine at most universities) was difficult to do by correspondence, but that was a problem to worry about later. Year 9 Science and GCSE level Science and Biology weren’t too bad – the Oxford Home Schooling receptionist had promised you could obtain equipment easily to work on practical experiments at home (or in his case, at Hogwarts). And final assessment for GCSE science subjects was just doing papers at an examination centre. Travelling to London from Surrey might be the easiest option – there were plenty of places there he could take the exams if Harry was willing to travel.

***

Harry’s birthday was a very low-key event in the Dursley household. Aunt Petunia seemed to be in a good mood and gave Harry the morning off from cooking breakfast, and they had a small cake at lunch. Mind you, they had cake often at the moment. Aunt Petunia was worried that Smeltings was starving her Duddykins. Harry got more textbooks from Dudley, care of his father’s wallet of course. His aunt and uncle gave him some new folders to keep notes in, a bag of new second hand clothes, a big roll of stamps, and a brand new cap with the Smeltings school crest on it.

“We wear them for sports,” Dudley explained. “The boaters are for class and lunch times and everything else. The stamps are so you can write to me. Mum thought of the hat, but the stamps were my idea,” he said, proud of his frugality. Now he wouldn’t have to buy Harry stamps out of his own pocket money.

The textbooks would be useful, but the stamps were Harry’s favourite gift. They’d be useful for writing to Dudley, who hadn’t always given Harry enough postage – the Hogsmeade Post Office had slugged him with extra fees every so often.

With the unimportant business of Harry’s birthday out of the way early in the morning, the family got down to the real important event of the day that needed to be discussed. The Masons were coming for dinner; important clients of Vernon’s.

“And there will be no funny business from you!” warned Uncle Vernon.

“Of course not, Uncle. Like I promised when I came home – I won’t do _any_ magic while I’m here. Maybe mum did magic in the holidays, but _I’m_ going to be respectful. I know you don’t like magic,” he said, glancing at them all. “Neither do I.” Harry wasn’t sure in his own mind if that last part was a lie or not. There were some parts he didn’t mind so much. He guessed… magic itself was quite fun. The teachers and Hogwarts itself were a mixed bag of wonderful and horrible. And as for the wizarding culture… some of it he liked, while other parts made all of Aunt Petunia’s accusations of the wizarding world’s isolationism and bigotry seem horribly accurate.

The Dursleys practised their hollow flattery they would employ for the Masons, and Harry was informed of his role for the dinner party as waiter and chief cook (though Aunt Petunia would no doubt get most of the credit), which was fine by him. Harry volunteered to eat his dinner in the kitchen which earnt him a small morsel of approval from his guardians, and a reprieve from having to listen to Uncle Vernon’s Japanese golfer joke a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In British (and Australian) English the subject is called “Maths”, not “Math” like in America.  
> Thanks to my new Britpicker Jennybeth98, who will be helping me out from here on. A couple of other corrections have been made to this chapter that her eagle eye spotted.  
> Please do leave a review or comment if you’d like to encourage me along, and click to leave kudos if you enjoyed it. :)


	2. Dobby's Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry thought house-elves would look mystical and regal. What a disappointment! He won't let Dobby ruin Uncle Vernon's dinner party, no matter what.

**_31 st July, 1992_ **

Out in the garden that afternoon Harry gathered some prize flowers for a floral arrangement for the dinner table, to do his part to help impress the Masons. Aunt Petunia seemed to like it, which was a good start. He then washed up and reported to the kitchen to start work on dinner – he wanted everything to be perfect. He dressed in a white shirt and black trousers, and when Mr. and Mrs. Mason had arrived to be greeted by a simpering Aunt Petunia, he took off the stained apron to serve everyone drinks and appetisers on trays.

He overheard them praising his manners to his aunt and uncle, and wonder of wonders, Aunt Petunia spoke well of him in turn saying, “My nephew is growing up to be a charming young man, and he simply loves cooking and playing waiter to our special guests.”

Everything seemed to going so well. Perhaps it was no surprise then that it wouldn’t last. Harry had just delivered the main meal to the dining table - roast leg of lamb with rosemary and garlic, a platter of vegetables, and home-made mint sauce and gravy. But when he returned to the kitchen, there was someone, or some _thing_ , waiting there for him. An odd little creature was standing next to the stove, eyeing the appliance curiously.

Harry managed not to shout out, but it was a close thing. He kept it to a quiet strangled cry of “Ghhrk!”, and grabbed one of the sharp kitchen knives which he waved threateningly in the direction of the little creature with bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls.

“What are you? Who are you?”

“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said the creature. “Such an honour it is to meet you, sir!” It did a grovelling bow, and wrung its hands.

“Shhhh!” hissed Harry frantically. “Not too loud, they’ll hear you!” He glanced worriedly at the kitchen door, but from the sounds of laughter and the clatter of knives and forks from the dining room, no-one had been disturbed yet.

He’d pictured house-elves being a lot more… mystical and stately. Not grubby little creatures in old rags. “What are you doing here, Dobby? Are you one of the Potter family elves? Do you need me to err… do something for you? It’s nice to meet you, but not _here_ , you see…”

“Oh, Dobby would be honoured to be a Potter elf, but no, Dobby is bound to serve one House and one family forever, and it is not the Potters.”

“Then what are you doing here, Dobby? Did your family send you with a message? Are you a Parkinson elf?”

“Oh no, sir, no… Dobby’s family doesn’t know he’s here. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir-”

“You’ll what?!” said Harry a little more loudly, looking worriedly at the oven, which was still cooling down from cooking the roast. “I’m sure they wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, Dobby. I certainly wouldn’t.”

Dobby started looking teary. “Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they remind Dobby to do extra punishments.”

“That’s dreadful. Can’t you leave? Find another family?”

“A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free… Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir.”

Harry stared. “Can’t anyone help you? Can I? I can pack you some food to take with you - do they feed you? Do you need new clothes? What you’re wearing looks-”

Dobby dissolved into wails and sobs of gratitude, which made Harry wish he’d been a bit more circumspect with the timing of his offer.

“Please,” Harry whispered frantically, “please be quiet. You’ll ruin the dinner party, shhh! I’ll give you some tinned food, a new teatowel to wear as a little toga, just hush, please!”

“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby… Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew…”

“I’m nothing specially, really, and my grades are dead average…”

Harry heard the thumping tread of Vernon’s heavy feet approaching the kitchen, and he frantically turned to Dobby.

“You mustn’t let him see you! Quick, hide behind the bin!”

Dobby looked hesitant, and a little sly. “If Harry Potter _promises_ …”

Harry straightened his back and assumed his best arrogant pure-blood air. “I order you to hide behind that bin _now_ , you recalcitrant excuse for an elf!”

Dobby scurried and hid, just as Vernon entered the room, and seized Harry by the collar and yanked him about to face him. “What is going on boy? What is all this noise about?” he said through gritted teeth, his face horribly close to Harry’s. Harry got spittle on his face as Vernon hissed at him.

Harry thought fast. Oddly enough, something close to the truth might work best, he thought.

“There’s a… _creature_ here, Uncle Vernon,” whispered Harry quietly and intently. “You know, one of _their_ type of things. Someone’s sent it, but it’s not saying who. I’m trying to stop it ruining your dinner party.” Harry gestured with the knife in the direction of the rubbish bin. “Don’t go near it, Uncle. It might be dangerous. Let me deal with it – I’ll get rid of it as quick as I can, no magic. I’m trying to talk it around first, so it leaves quietly, without any fuss that upsets the Masons or ruins your evening.”

Vernon looked around, and saw a foot sticking out from behind the kitchen bin, and the tip of a large pointed ear above it. He let go of Harry, and took a wary step backwards.

“Get rid of it, boy. Get rid of it _now_!” he snarled.

“I will, Uncle Vernon. I won’t let _them_ ruin your special evening,” promised Harry. “Tell the Masons it’s a neighbour’s kid, if they hear anything. Or a cat. Or a kid _with_ a cat.”

“Make sure you keep it quiet, and deal with it, boy.”

Uncle Vernon lumbered swiftly out of the room, leaving his nephew to face the potentially dangerous creature on his own. He had important business to deal with elsewhere, and this was one of _their_ creatures, so one of _their_ kind should handle it.

“So sorry, one of the neighbour’s kids has stopped by, he’s a bit _special_ you know, causing a bit of a fuss in the kitchen, Harry’s dealing with it, they’re good chums…” boomed Uncle Vernon in the next room as he rejoined the Masons.

“May Dobby come out now, sir?”

“I didn’t mean to snap at you like that, sorry if I offended you. I just… I didn’t want Uncle Vernon getting upset. It’s important. So come out and have a seat, but please stay quiet this time? And please, tell me what you’re doing here?” pleaded Harry.

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has _never_ been asked to sit down by a wizard – like an _equal_ -”

“Shhh!” said Harry, gingerly patting it on the back in an attempt to comfort it. He gave it the best advice he knew, from his own experience. “Take some deep breaths. Push the tears down, you can’t let anyone hear you cry. Put on your brave face, you have work to do, right? That’s it. Don’t let the Dursleys hear you, or we’ll both be punished. Hush now, hush. Things could be worse, it’s not so bad. Focus on your job – you have a message, perhaps?”

“Dobby has a warning. Dobby will protect Harry Potter, even if he _does_ have to shut his ears in the oven door later… _Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts_.”

Harry stared at him, in the silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks in the distance and the rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“They make me go, Dobby. I don’t have a choice. I have to go back, or my family will be in danger. They made that very clear.”

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby. “Harry Potter is brave to worry about his family, but worse danger awaits him at Hogwarts, mortal danger. Harry Potter must stay where he is safe.”

“ _What_ danger awaits me?”

“There is a plot, to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts this year,” said a trembling Dobby. “Harry Potter must not put himself into peril.”

Harry tried to question him about what terrible things, and the specifics of the plot, but Dobby seemed unable to answer except that it _wasn’t_ to do with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. When questioned too much, Dobby started banging his head against the wall, before Harry grabbed him and pulled him away.

“You are _not_ to punish yourself while you are here, Dobby,” said Harry firmly and loudly so there would be no mistake. “Preferably not at all, but you must stop hurting yourself. No banging on walls, no oven door.”

“Poor child,” Harry overheard one of the Masons saying sympathetically from the next room. He winced. He really needed to keep this quieter.

“I appreciate the warning, Dobby,” Harry said softly. “Unfortunately, while I would like to stay here and only study enough magic to get control of my powers and maybe some of the really interesting stuff, I just don’t have a choice, so I need to make the best of things. Perchance you could uncover more evidence you can share about this plot later - I really would appreciate it. But without firm evidence to give to the Ministry or Professor McGonagall about a real risk, I don’t have grounds to stay home. So I’ll be rejoining my friends at Hogwarts in September,” he concluded.

“Friends who don’t even _write_ to Harry Potter?” said Dobby slyly. Some arguing later, Dobby was holding Harry’s mail hostage to his acquiescence in quitting Hogwarts, and getting less co-operative and louder by the minute. He was even eying the beautiful masterpiece of cream and sugared violets that was the planned dessert, like he might ruin it.

“Alright Dobby, you win,” said Harry, with a repentant defeated air. “I will make an effort to stay here and not return to Hogwarts. In return for which, I want my letters, and your promise to tell me as much as you can about this plot, when you are more able.”

“Harry Potter promises?”

“I promise I won’t go back if I can help it. And please tell me more when you can about this plot, but not at this house or when there’s Muggles around.”

“Dobby is so glad, Harry Potter! Harry Potter will be safe here at home.” He smiled in a teary fashion, and handed over the letters and a couple of packages, and disappeared with a sound like the snap of a whip.

Well, that had gotten rid of that crazy little creature. It wasn’t at all like he’d pictured a house-elf being – what a disappointment. He’d expected something a bit cuter. Or more regally graceful.

Harry would love to know exactly what this dire plot was, but the warning was so vague as to be entirely useless. He’d just have to keep working on his Shield Charm, and hope for the best.

He took the dessert out to the dining table, with smiling apologies for the neighbour’s child who’d made a bit of noise, but was gone now. Uncle Vernon seemed especially pleased at that news; Aunt Petunia just looked puzzled, not having heard what was going on, but followed her husband’s lead and just smiled politely. Back in the kitchen Harry made himself a plate of dinner with the leftovers from the main meal (there were plenty, as planned), and read through his reclaimed mail.

Ron had tried to send him an unbelievable six letters inviting him to visit, which was impressive given school had only broken up a couple of weeks ago. There was also a lot of chatter about Quidditch, and complaints about his siblings. The most recent two letters had Muggle stamps plastered all over the envelope so that there was only a tiny bit of space left for his name and address.

There was one letter from Neville chatting about his greenhouse plants, and mentioning that his Uncle Algie liked the new pipe he’d bought him and was impressed with his school results, especially Potions (even though it was only an Acceptable). So it sounded like that was going well. He asked how Harry’s summer was going, and that his owl would wait for a response (obviously something had gone wrong with that plan, thanks to Dobby). There was also a wrapped birthday gift – a ladle for potions, with a note saying it was made from holly. How thoughtful!

Hermione had sent a letter through the normal method, judging by the stamp and postmark, which talked all about their exam results again, and the summer homework. She also mentioned she’d be visiting Diagon Alley on Wednesday 12th of August, if he wanted to meet up. Hermione had sent him a birthday card, a study planner, and a pad of multi-coloured sticky notes as a gift (which he thought was a great present).

Their presents made him feel very guilty that he hadn’t gotten them anything – he knew Neville’s birthday was the day before his, but he didn’t even know when Hermione’s was. He should find out. And get Neville something as soon as he could – at least he had the very reasonable excuse of not having an owl to deliver any gifts to him.

There were no letters from Pansy or Daphne. He figured they probably just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

***

Harry decided to follow through on his promise to Dobby, and asked his uncle and aunt if he could possibly avoid going back to Hogwarts if he could sort out some kind of home correspondence course with them.

They were sceptical it would be allowed, and Uncle Vernon said, “I don’t want any magical rubbish in my house!”

Aunt Petunia seemed more sympathetic and suggested that if he could practise his magic tricks elsewhere and just did his essays at home, perhaps that would be acceptable. Then he could go to a normal school during the day.

He spent the first of August (until sunset) gardening and giving the house a good clean. It was part apology for upsetting the Dursleys during the dinner party (chores always put them in a better mood), and part quiet celebration of Lughnasadh. It didn’t feel the same as celebrating the other festivals at Hogwarts – there was no magic to it.

The next day when Ron’s asthmatic old owl arrived on his windowsill with a letter, Harry gave it a snack of raw bacon, a few knuts in a tiny bag, and a few letters to deliver.

“You can drop those off at the nearest wizarding post office, if they’re too much for you,” he said, feeling a bit silly for talking to an owl, even though people swore they were really smart. “Not the one for Ron, of course.”

Errol took a couple of hours to recover, but eventually flew off gamely into the night with Harry’s letters.

Harry didn’t get a response from Pansy, but the responses from Neville and Ron came swiftly. They both wrote back that they’d be happy to meet up with him in Diagon Alley with Hermione, and Neville confirmed that Dobby wasn’t his house-elf. Ron’s letter arrived borne by Percy’s owl Hermes – Ron said they didn’t have any house-elves at all, and that Percy sent a reminder to get his summer homework done early (“the git”). Harry hoped he hadn’t tired Errol out with too many letters.

And Professor McGonagall had sent a response to Harry’s letter to her. Apparently “a mysterious evil wizard is plotting against me” was insufficient grounds to withdraw from Hogwarts to be tutored at home. She tried to reassure him that Quirrell was gone, and that Snape was eminently trustworthy. He believed the first, but the second remained very doubtful in his mind. He’d trust Neville’s opinion over hers any day. He guessed he should’ve been specific about this being a completely _new_ wizard plotting against him. Probably new. It could be Snape. Harry wondered if Snape had house-elves. He’d have to add finding that out to his “to do” list for September.

He reported his lack of success to his aunt and uncle, but they didn’t seem surprised. “It’s better this way anyway, boy. I don’t want magic in my house. And make sure you find out who sent that _creature_ to ruin my dinner party and give them what for,” said Uncle Vernon. “I don’t want it coming back, you hear? No funny business of any kind in _my_ house.” Harry said he’d do his best to discover the culprit.

“My friends from Hogwarts wanted to visit here, Uncle Vernon, but I’ve managed to convince them to meet up with me in London instead,” lied Harry. “I know you don’t want _their_ kind here. Could I have some money for a train ticket to London, Wednesday after next? I don’t want them to show up here looking for me, you see.”

Uncle Vernon was pleased to have so easily avoided the dire prospect of a group of untrained young magical hooligans descending upon his house. He was even pleased enough to cough up a little of his money to avoid the situation. He comforted himself that it wasn’t more than he gave to Dudley multiple times a week. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reviewer (PaC) mentioned that the “I swear on my magic” thing (I mentioned it briefly in the last fic) isn’t canon, but fanon. I must admit I thought it was a canonical element, which was why I used it! Can anyone else comment on this? And please, if you have strong feelings on the matter let me know if it bugs you or you love it, because I can easily go back and edit it out.
> 
> Updates of new chapters are now coming out twice a week, as the fic is complete. :)


	3. It’s Quaint Until It’s Backwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets up with his friends for some shopping in Diagon Alley. An argument disrupts their outing.

**_12 th August 1992_ **

Harry sent a letter via ordinary Muggle post to Hermione, letting her know that they’d all meet her in Diagon Alley on the date she’d suggested.

“Do you think it would be alright if I bought an owl, Uncle Vernon? So I can write to Dudley more easily?”

“No ruddy owls in this house, boy! I won’t have it! We had enough of those last year!”

Harry saw his uncle’s face purpling and knew he had to drop the topic fast.

“Of course uncle, that was stupid of me, I don’t know what I was thinking. My mistake, I’m sorry,” he babbled. It looked like he was going to keep paying out fees to the post office. It would probably be difficult for Dudley to explain an owl showing up with letters at Smeltings, in any case.

Harry took the train to London and from there a taxi to Charing Cross Road, and then met up with his friends inside the Leaky Cauldron, putting on a cloak and hat as he entered. Neville was there with his Gran, and Hermione with her parents. They said Ron had arrived earlier with his family but they all got dragged off by his mum to a book signing at _Flourish and Blotts_ – he’d promised to find them later if he could. Somewhat to his surprise Pansy was there as well (with her mother Megaera) – she’d never responded to his letter inviting her to meet up too. They were sitting next to the Longbottoms, and Mrs. Parkinson was chatting to Neville’s Gran, discreetly avoiding talking to the Grangers as much as possible.

Harry greeted everyone, including shaking Mr. Granger’s hand, and a tip of his hat and a kiss to the hand for the ladies. He hesitated over Mrs. Granger, but she held out her very tanned-looking hand for him with a laugh, and teased Hermione about her friend “the young Mr. Darcy”. Hermione didn’t offer _her_ hand, and her mother laughed again.

“Did he refuse to dance with you at a ball, my little dandelion?” she teased. Her own frizzy dark brown hair was clearly the genetic source of Hermione’s own unmanageable locks that tended to puff out around her face.

“Don’t be ridiculous, mother. There haven’t been any balls,” said Hermione, who looked embarrassed and quickly changed the topic to their shopping plan for the afternoon. She had a colour-coded schedule ready.

Over a round of Butterbeers (and tea for the adults) and some sandwiches for lunch they discussed their shopping plans for the afternoon.

“Gringotts first, to withdraw funds. Then to Madam Malkin’s for uniforms for those who need them,” said Hermione, working through her list.

“I’d like to stop by Gladrags Wizardwear, too,” said Harry. “I need a new hat.”

“What’s wrong with your school hat? It looks fine,” she said, glancing at it.

“It is,” agreed Harry. “I just want some more options for casual wear. Ernie said I should have more than one hat.”

Hermione shrugged indifferently but the Parkinsons and Mrs. Longbottom smiled approvingly.

“Who is Ernie?” asked Neville.

“Macmillan. He’s in Hufflepuff,” Harry explained.

“Oh, Macmillan,” said Neville, seemingly recognising the surname. Only friends tended to use first names, so that made sense to Harry.

“Alright, we’ll split up for clothing then, and meet up afterwards at the Apothecary to restock our potion supplies,” suggested Hermione. “And if anyone sees Ron, tell him to meet us there. If not, our next stop will be Flourish and Blotts for school books.”

“Gilderoy Lockhart is there signing his books now,” said the smiling Mrs. Granger. “Molly, Mrs. Weasley that is, told us all about him – he sounds like quite the dashing adventurer! He’ll be there until half-past four, so there’s plenty of time to do some shopping and still get your Defence books signed if you’re keen. The crowd will have thinned out in a couple of hours and you won’t have to fight your way to the shelves. Or to the author.” She smiled as she gave a pointed sidelong glance at her daughter.

“He wrote almost our whole booklist!” Hermione said defensively. “That’s impressive, you have to admit.”

“Not everyone wants to read seven textbooks for one subject, darling.”

“Do you think they cut out a new Herbology textbook to make room for more Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks?” worried Neville out loud.

“Be at ease,” reassured Mrs. Parkinson gently. “It is customary for a book to be employed for use across multiple years. Surely there remain plenty of plants you have yet to study?”

“Yes, I suppose that is true.”

“You worry about the silliest things, Neville,” his Gran scolded. “You should be worrying more about your Transfiguration studies, not Herbology.” Neville hunched his shoulders and dropped his gaze to his plate. He ate some more of his sandwich in a desultory fashion, saying nothing.

“After the bookshop let us then complete any miscellaneous shopping for the afternoon, and part company before it grows too late. I have a long train journey ahead of me, and don’t wish to tarry so long in Diagon Alley that I am late home for dinner,” said Harry, trying to sound formal with so many adults around to impress.

“Why don’t you catch the Knight Bus home, Harry?” asked Pansy curiously.

“Surely your guardians are attending to your transportation needs?” asked Mrs. Parkinson.

“Well, Uncle Vernon gave me money for the train. They are Muggles, you know, and not very comfortable here in the wizarding world,” he said, glancing at the Grangers with concern. “Are you alright here? It’s not uh… alarming for you?” Harry was worried Hermione might bear the brunt of any displeasure, but he could hardly say that out loud.

“Oh, I was a little bombarded with questions by Arthur Weasley about how electricity works, but I’m otherwise perfectly fine!” reassured Mr. Granger. “We’ve been advised to stay out of Knockturn Alley, but that the rest of Diagon Alley will be alright.”

“Don’t worry about us, dear,” said Mrs. Granger. “It’s all quite a lot of fun here, don’t you think? Like stepping back in time. It’s all so quaint!”

Mrs. Parkinson’s smile grew a little thinner and tighter, but she didn’t say anything.

***

Visiting Gringotts was pleasantly straightforward for a change. Harry noticed that Hermione paid her cart operator, but when Harry’s tried asking him for the “standard fee” Harry just responded quietly but firmly, “I think not.” The goblin grinned toothily at him and made the cart go extra fast in what Harry suspected was intended as a small revenge. Harry tried not to show how much he enjoyed the fast ride and complained that it was terrible, which seemed to make the goblin happy. The toothy grin looked a lot like a snarl though, so he wasn’t really sure.

Harry and Pansy took their turns at _Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions_ first (Harry only needed new black work robes), as they (and her mother) then split off from Neville and Hermione to go to _Gladrags Wizardwear_. Pansy almost immediately began complaining that he hadn’t responded to her letters – she’d sent two. Harry explained that he hadn’t received them, and told her all about Dobby’s visit and his letter-thieving habits which might be to blame. Mrs. Parkinson said he definitely wasn’t one of their elves.

“But I told you that in my letter already, Harry. Didn’t you get the response I sent to your invitation to meet up here today?” she asked. “That should’ve arrived after the house-elf left, so even if he kept the early letter the second should’ve gotten through, if ones from your other friends did.”

“Sorry, no. I was surprised to see you here today, actually. Pleasantly, of course.”

“Did you get Daphne’s letter? She complained to me you hadn’t written back to her.”

“No, nothing from her either.”

“I think your owl ward is perhaps biased against Slytherins, Harry!” exclaimed Mrs. Parkinson. “You must get your ward checked and updated. Or ask this Dobby if he’s still keeping some of your mail. Perhaps he belongs to someone who disapproves of some of your friendships.”

Harry nodded. He’d add Dumbledore as well as Snape, then, to his mental list of people to be investigated to see if they owned a house-elf named Dobby.

“Do you know how I’d ascertain what kind of ward I might have, if that’s the problem?”

“I regret to say that I am woefully uninformed on the subject of warding,” apologised Mrs. Parkinson. “You would have to talk to and employ a Warder or Curse Breaker in regards to your troubles, and I am personally unacquainted with any. There are less professionals in those fields than there were some years ago, as many Masters died in the last two wars.”

Harry thanked her anyway.

“Do you have any advice you wish to give freely on the matter of encouraging loquaciousness in house-elves?”

“I’m not sure – it doesn’t seem very loyal. A good house-elf must be faithful and close-mouthed, and they are best neither seen nor heard. For one to try and betray his family’s secrets in even such a roundabout manner is almost unheard of,” said Mrs. Parkinson.

Pansy said, “Don’t thank him for his efforts on your behalf. You never thank them for their work – it’s just not done. It’s bad luck.”

“Bit late I think. It cried a bit when I thanked it.”

After their clothes shopping they met up with the others at the _Apothecary_. Harry was still trying to brainstorm clues about Dobby. Pansy and her mother unfortunately didn’t know if Snape or Dumbledore had house-elves (and said it would be impolite to make such enquiries of them as they were not socially close). Her mother suggested it could of course be a Hogwarts elf. Harry was worrying over its state of clothing and tendency to self-punishment, and the Parkinsons were trying to reassure him that not all elves were so mistreated, and that they didn’t even _like_ wearing proper clothes.

Hermione overheard them as they arrived, and was aghast to hear their summary of what house-elves were like, and how Dobby was enslaved to a family he wished to escape. A very loud argument subsequently started between Hermione and Pansy about house-elves, one arguing that it was slavery, and the other that they stayed with families for their own good. Their parents’ attempts to intervene and soothe their argument started calmly, but soon degenerated into biting comments of their own, with Mrs. Granger’s complaints about their “backwater antiquated slave-owning society”, Mrs. Parkinson’s acerbic sneers about “ignorant Muggles who don’t understand our ways”, and Mr. Granger’s pleas in support of his wife that “all _rational_ people oppose slavery, surely”.

Mrs. Longbottom loudly said, “This is all a lot of fuss about nothing. _Our_ house-elf is very happy. He’d die if we cast him off, so stop being ridiculous about this, and calm down. You’re over-reacting.” It completely failed to calm the situation as she’d hoped. The Grangers definitely didn’t appreciate being told they were over-reacting, and said stiffly that they would complete their shopping another day. Her father grabbed Hermione’s hand as they left. Harry was a bit scared for her, but guessed there was nothing he could do to help.

Neville and Harry had both retreated away from the conversation as soon as it got noisy, and were hunched next to a wall full of bottled potions ingredients, apologising to each other repeatedly for the fuss.

They waved goodbye to Hermione as she left, and Harry mouthed “Sorry” to her, but he wasn’t sure she got the message. Hopefully she’d be fine, and he’d see her on the train.

“I’m sorry Neville, I didn’t mean to start a fight,” worried Harry.

“Sorry about my Gran, she doesn’t mean any harm, she’s just trying to help,” said an anxious Neville in turn.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up, I was just worried about Dobby.”

“I’m sorry about Hermione leaving. Gran didn’t mean to offend them,” Neville said apologetically.

“I know, it’s alright, it’s my fault anyway for raising the topic.”

The adults commiserated with each other about their lack of success in making the Grangers see sense, and their children trailed after them towards _Flourish and Blotts_. Harry reflected to himself that at least it was really nice how Hermione’s parents had stuck up for her in public and defended her, just like the Dursleys would for Dudley… but not for him. He sighed softly to himself. It seemed certain now that he would be stuck in the wizarding world for years - and while it wasn’t all as bad as he’d thought, it certainly did have some horrible aspects to it. Like house-elf slavery, and blood prejudice. And like the fact that he was never, ever going to be normal enough for the Dursleys now. No matter how hard he tried.

Harry took his mind off his depressed musings by trying to quietly persuade Neville to buy a new wand – he was sure Neville would do better in class with a better matching wand. If it was important for Potions to have a compatible wooden stirrer for perfect results, just imagine how much better he’d do in wanded classes with a more compatible wand!

“You wouldn’t have to tell anyone, Neville,” Harry whispered temptingly, “just keep your Dad’s wand in your trunk and use the new one for class. I’ll even lend you the money and you can pay me back later – your Gran never has to know.”

Neville wavered, but in the end decided to play it safe. “Gran would know, Harry. She _always_ knows if I’m doing something I shouldn’t. I think I’d better not.”

Harry sighed, but he knew all about picking your battles from living with the Dursleys. Neville clearly wasn’t ready to try for a new wand yet. “Maybe another time, Neville.”

Neville looked relieved he was dropping the topic, “Certainly, Harry. Mayhap some other time would suit.”

“No, wait!” Harry said, perking up excitedly. “I’ll buy it as a birthday present for you. I know it’s late, sorry about that. I’m not used to buying presents for friends. I’m not… used to having friends at all, actually,” he said, whispering the last part. “So I’ll buy it as a gift, yeah? Sorry, I mean… if my plan is acceptable to you I would like to purchase you a wand as a gift forthwith, without return obligation of any kind.”

“Gran would still be mad…” wavered Neville uncertainly.

“It can be your back-up wand,” suggested Harry. “Allegedly.”

“He’s just a snake in lion’s clothing, isn’t he?” said Pansy, startling Neville.

“How long have you been eavesdropping, cousin?” said Harry, who was also surprised that she’d snuck up on them.

“Long enough to know you may as well give in and let Harry buy you a wand, Longbottom,” smirked Pansy. “I don’t know what happened to your old one, but they’re known to be very difficult to repair. And Harry is rather stubborn, so save us all some time here and be appropriately gracious about your gift like a proper… like you should be. Oh and Harry?”

“Yes?”

“My birthday’s the 20th of February. Don’t forget to get me a gift this year.”

“You didn’t get _me_ one!”

“Of course I…! Oh, right. Your mail ward problems. I wonder what happened to my present? What a waste!” Pansy seemed distinctly unimpressed. “You simply _must_ get that fixed somehow. I’ll have to remember to tell the others too.”

They finally caught up with Ron (and his brother Percy) in the bookshop.

“Mum’s trying to get _all_ of the Lockhart books signed, but as he wouldn’t sign twenty-eight books all in one go, she keeps having to go to the back of the line to get another seven books at a time autographed,” explained Ron. “It would’ve been even more, but Fred and George say they’re going to share. Those two got to escape to Gambol and Japes for being ‘good lads’, but mum said I had to wait here for you.”

“Harry, how are you,” greeted Percy, walking up and shaking Harry’s hand formally.

“Very well thank you Percy, I hope you have been having an enjoyable summer?” enquired Harry politely.

Ron sighed with boredom. “C’mon Harry, can we just get your books and get out of here?”

“It’s been quite pleasant, thank you,” said Percy, ignoring his brother with an accustomed ease borne of long practice.

“Well, if you both don’t mind you’re welcome to join me as I get my books,” said Harry. “Neville and Pansy have already started.” Though in Neville’s case it was more that his Gran was collecting his books, while he carried the basket for her.

The supply list for the year was quite straightforward – seven books by Gilderoy Lockhart for Defence, and _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_ by Miranda Goshawk. Over Ron’s objections Harry spent a little extra time browsing, and picked up his own copy of the _Pure-Blood Directory by_ Anonymous (who was actually Cantankerus Nott), and a cookbook called _One Minute Feasts - It's Magic!_ that Percy recommended as one their mother liked, when he saw him browsing the “Household Charms” section curiously. He also picked up a copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_. The pattern was obvious, and he liked to read ahead when he could. It would be good to have his own copy – Goshawk’s books in the library were often out on loan. After a little thought he also picked up a book for Hermione as a birthday gift for later in the year; September wasn’t too far away now.

After their books were bought, Pansy and her mother lined up to get her books signed, but the boys weren’t terribly interested in doing likewise, so with permission from Mr. Weasley (who was disappointed to hear the Grangers had left) and Mrs. Longbottom, they headed out on their own for a little shopping on their own.

Harry dragged a reluctant Neville to _Ollivanders_ for a new wand. “Just as a back-up wand, hey? You can’t refuse a present - it would be rude, Pansy said.”

Neville was still hesitant, but when he finally found a compatible wand (thirteen inch cherry wood with a unicorn hair core) the look on his face was of indescribable wonder.

“The cherry tree represents death, rebirth, and new awakenings,” said Ollivander. “May it serve you well.”

Ron gossiped about his father getting into a fight with Mr. Malfoy in the bookstore.

“Really Ron, fisticuffs?” asked Neville.

“He started it,” said Ron defensively. “Going on about us being poor, as usual. As if that’s worse than being a Death Eater.”

“Why didn’t they take their duel outside and do it properly?”

“I dunno,” shrugged Ron. “Dad was pretty mad.”

They went to the joke shop next for Ron, but as neither Neville nor Harry were interested in buying anything, and Ron didn’t have much money to spend, it didn’t take long.

Harry bought them both some strawberry and almond crunch ice-creams to eat as they walked (and a mandarin sorbet for himself), and he asked for advice on where to buy a new trunk.

“I’ve got so many books now - my trunk’s getting really heavy. My current trunk was second-hand, and if it had any charms on it I think they’ve long since worn off. Do you know where I can get a better one?”

Ron didn’t have any ideas, and neither did Neville, so Harry rejoined the Parkinsons as they were coming out of the bookshop to get some advice. Ron meanwhile convinced Neville to join him in window shopping at _Quality Quidditch Supplies_ instead of trunk shopping. Neville looked questioningly at him, and Harry nodded. He didn’t mind if Neville wanted to make Ron happy, or preferred to look at brooms rather than trunks.

“Well, you could get a standard school trunk with an Extension Charm on it,” said Pansy when asked. “But the _best_ trunks would be in Knockturn Alley - that’s where we got mine.”

“Why?”

“Ministry regulations,” said her mother. “There’s strict controls on what you can cast that spell on legally, due to the risk of items getting out into the Muggle world. I think we had best stick with a standard school trunk for you, Harry. But there’s no reason you cannot acquire one of the better quality ones, with a few extra charms on it. There’s room for customisation too, if you’re not in a rush.”

The Parkinsons escorted him to _Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment_ , where he purchased a new school trunk. The shopkeep told them all about the Extension Charm, with a practised line of patter.

“It’s advanced, but subject to strict control, because of its potential misuse. Theoretically, a hundred wizards could take up residence in a toilet cubicle if they were sufficiently adept at these spells; the potential for infractions of the International Statute of Secrecy are obvious. The Ministry of Magic has therefore laid down a strict rule that capacity-enhancement is not for private use, but only for the production of objects (such as school trunks and family tents), which have been individually approved for manufacture by the relevant Ministry Department. Hogwarts school trunks, like the majority of our wizarding luggage sold here, are issued with capacity enhancing or extension charms as standard. These spells not only increase the interior dimensions of objects while leaving the outer ones unchanged, they also render the contents lighter.”

Harry got a trunk that could hold at _least_ ten times the contents you’d expect, and came with a security charm that would mean only he could open it with a tap of his wand or a secret password (he decided he’d set that later). There was also a secret compartment underneath the bottom of the trunk, with its own Extension Charm to increase its storage space. And the trunk was so heavily enchanted to be light, Harry thought he could carry it with one hand even when full. Harry eyed the boxes that would preserve food for camping trips, but was told you shouldn’t put something with an Expansion charm on it inside another item that also had an Expansion Charm on it – the results could be dangerously unpredictable. He got the storekeep to unshrink his shopping, and it all fit in his new trunk without seeming to make it heavier at all.

The friends and families, minus the Grangers sadly, regathered to say their farewells over another round of Butterbeers at the _Leaky Cauldron_ , and wished Harry a safe journey back on the train. But Harry had one last task to do before he went home, that he hadn’t told anyone about. He was off to the Ministry of Magic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information about Extension Charms is from the “Pottermore” website.
> 
> If Hermione's attitude has been bugging you, hang in there for another couple of chapters. :)
> 
> Updates of new chapters will be coming out every Tuesday and *Friday* morning (Australian time). Sorry I made an error writing Tuesday and *Thursday* previously, so I've posted this chapter early so as to not disappoint any readers who might have been waiting for an update.


	4. Secrets Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry talks with the Ministry about visiting Potter Cottage at Godric's Hollow, and has an uncomfortable talk with Petunia.

**_August 1992_ **

After the others had gone, Harry took his own turn using the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron to Floo to the Ministry. Unlike the fireplace in Gringotts, there was no charge for using Tom’s fireplace or Floo powder, so long as you’d made a purchase there that day. Harry went directly to the Ministry Atrium on Level Eight, and then to Wizengamot Administration Services on Level Two to see how much progress they’d made on approving his access and control of Potter Cottage. It had been a few months since his last efforts, and while he hadn’t heard back from them he thought it was possible any messages may have gone astray, like Gringotts’ messages had. Administration sent him to the Magical Maintenance Department, the request for access having been approved!

A young witch in navy blue robes was very excited to see him stop by her quiet corner of the Ministry.

“Oh, I’m so very pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter!” she gushed. She giggled when tipped his hat at her and asked her name.

“Well aren’t you the young gentleman! My name’s Cassia Lufkin. You’d best call me Miss Lufkin. And I’m very glad to say that Reg, Mr. Cattermole that is, has approved your request to access Potter Cottage.”

“That’s wonderful, thank you Miss Lufkin. And I can remove items from the building?”

“Oh! Yes. You can remove anything that belonged to your family of course. But we have to ask you not to disturb the exterior of the cottage. Oh! And I can tell you something wonderful!”

“Yes?”

“The budget changes have been approved for extra preservation charms! Isn’t that marvellous?”

“Is it? I mean, good, thank you very much.” Harry didn’t really understand what was going on. “So, can I take full possession of my parents’ house or not?”

Miss Lufkin’s face fell. “Well, not really. We can’t approve that – it would have to be approved by the Minister himself. Did you know it’s a listed historic landmark? Mr. Cattermole sent a note up, but he didn’t hear back I’m afraid, Mr. Potter.”

She leaned in to whisper confidentially, even though the office was deserted apart from the two of them; it was in a very out of the way part of the complex. “Usually our memos are about requests for new mops, or changes to weather enchantments. So the Minister might not have realised how important the request was, you see. And Reg is a bit shy about approaching those who outrank him for favours.

“But we did what we could – we’re quite entitled to grant you access to the interior, and to improve the preservation charms so that there shouldn’t be any further damage to the building or contents. While you sort it out. If you can. Oh, I really do think it’s a shame that you can’t just claim it, but there it is! At least you can get your things out.

“You do understand why we restrict access, don’t you, Mr. Potter?”

“Not really, to be honest. Why can’t I just walk in?”

“There’s wards to stop that – in the early years after well, after You-Know-Who was defeated there were lots of sightseers, and it was reported that a couple of people walked off with ‘souvenirs’. The wards restrict access to stop people taking things, or damaging the building. Someone painted the Dark Mark on the side of the building once, can you believe it? They can’t get away with that anymore.”

“Alright, I can see that makes sense. So Miss Lufkin, how do I pass through the wards, since I’m approved?”

“Oh! Sorry, I’ll forget my own head next,” she rummaged in a drawer and got out an amulet on a thin leather cord. “Wear this whenever you’re visiting. You can keep it as long as you need to, just return it here whenever you’re done.” She beamed happily at him. “I’m so glad I could help you today, Mr. Potter! Please sign here to confirm receipt of your amulet.”

Harry scribbled his name done on a form (with a tiny blotch – quills were still difficult for him), and received the amulet and a short scroll of parchment that noted his permission to access Potter Cottage and remove the contents. Finally!

“I don’t suppose the Ministry would have a copy of my parents’ wills on file, Miss Lufkin?” Harry wanted to ensure any bequests went where they were intended to have gone.

“Oh, no, sorry,” she apologised. “I could be wrong, but I don’t think they do that here. People usually nominate an executor to handle their affairs. Gringotts might have a copy!” she volunteered brightly. _For a negotiable fee_ , thought Harry grumpily.

After saying farewell to the overly enthusiastic Miss Lufkin, it was getting too late to go to the bank or the cottage today, so he headed back to civilisation and caught the train home. He’d visit Potter Cottage soon – perhaps tomorrow. His new trunk should be able to hold a lot of items, and he could make a list of other things to remove later to his vault. Did wizards have a moving service? Or did people just shrink things and put them in their pockets? He’d need a trustworthy adult to accompany him – his Shrinking Charm was passable though unpolished (he’d read ahead in _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_ last year) but students weren’t allowed to cast spells outside school. Unfortunately, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d met a single adult in his life yet who truly merited the adjective “trustworthy”. He had no idea who’d be a good person to ask for help.

***

Unfortunately for Harry’s plans to visit Godric’s Hollow right away, the Dursleys kept him very busy over the next week with chores to make up for his “day off” doing shopping for Hogwarts. Dudley was also demanding more help with finishing his Smeltings homework, and Harry had to finish his own off too.

A couple of days after his visit to Diagon Alley, he was chatting with Dudley at dinner about how it went and what he’d bought (in the most general terms) with careful lies about how strict the goblins were about his expenditures. Then he accidentally let slip a reference to “Mrs. Parkinson” arguing with Hermione’s parents. He’d previously only referred to “Pansy’s family”, and his frozen worried face as he glanced at Petunia made her own face pale.

She didn’t approach him about it right away, and he thought maybe he’d gotten away with the slip up after all. But late one evening while he was working at his desk, Aunt Petunia walked into his room and sat down on his bed. “Tell me,” she said abruptly. “Tell me the truth – was my mother a witch? Was she hiding it all those years?”

“No, no she wasn’t,” said Harry, and his aunt sighed with relief. “But… her family, they were magical. She was what they call a Squib – a non-magical person born into a magical family.”

Petunia’s face tightened up again.

“She was ordinary, Aunt Petunia, a normal person, not magical at all. And the wizards, they can be very hard on those who don’t show any magic. Sometimes they kick them out of their families and never speak to them again. Sometimes, I’ve heard, they get violent, even try to kill them. My friend Neville, his great-uncle thought he was a Squib. He tried to drown him once, though it didn’t work. Then he dropped him out of a second story window. Neville survived though – his magic finally kicked in. I’ve heard sometimes people poison them, too.”

“My mum seemed to hate magic, when we were very young,” said Aunt Petunia pensively. “When Lily got accepted to Hogwarts, she was so excited, so proud. But before that, she didn’t want to even see a fantasy book with magic in it in the house. Said it was all lies and rubbish. You’re really certain?” she asked weakly.

“As much as we can be. They’re pretty sure Daisy was a witch – she was Pansy’s great-grandmother as well as mine. We’re second cousins.”

“What about Dudley?”

“Well, he just seems to be a Muggle. I mean, a normal person. Not magical. Or he would’ve gotten a Hogwarts letter.” He and Aunt Petunia might technically be Squibs, but Harry didn’t want to upset her by saying so. “Did Grandma Heather never say she was a Squib? Explain about her family?”

“No… I remember once she said she’d sworn never to talk about her family – she’d promised she wouldn’t. And that she didn’t _want_ to, anyway – she hated the lot of them. Perhaps _they_ threatened her, like that nasty Dumbledore threatened us. They don’t like their secrets being shared with ‘Muggles’. Or maybe she told her precious Lily, but _I_ wasn’t worth an explanation.

“Now, understand this - we won’t speak of this again. I don’t want Vernon or Dudley worried,” she finished sternly.

“….Alright.” Harry supposed that talk could’ve gone much worse.

***

With only a few days left in August, Harry finally colluded with Dudley to seize a chance to visit to Godric’s Hollow. With a pointed reminder about how Dudley would surely like the study assistance to keep on coming during the year, Harry got him to cover for him as they “went out to the movies together”. Dudley got to keep the extra money grudgingly allocated for Harry’s movie ticket, and Harry got a day free from supervision.

He hated to do it, but the Knight Bus was the most efficient way to get to Godric’s Hollow. He wasn’t sure if the town was the kind of place he should wear wizarding clothes to or not, so he stuck with his usual plan of trousers and a puffy white wizarding shirt, with a vest and a hat tucked into a backpack in case they were needed. He also made sure he had his wand (in case of emergencies), his new amulet and letter, some money, and his Gringotts key in case he had time to visit there later (which he almost always kept on him in any case). He carefully smuggled out his new trunk by making a couple of trips – first hurrying it to the garage, then farewelling his aunt, then doubling back to pick his trunk up after she thought he’d left.

The bus lurched and swayed its way through the city and into the country, while Harry tried determinedly not to look out the windows. He really, really needed to learn Apparition this year. And if they could catch you at it – how _did_ they keep track of underage magic use? He put his vest and hat on for the trip. He still wasn’t quite sure of the rules for wearing hats indoors or not for what counted as “in public” seemed vague (and half the wizarding population didn’t seem to follow the rules Pansy was trying to drill into his skull anyway), but it was useful for hiding his scar. He put it back in his backpack when he got off the bus at Godric’s Hollow, though. The bus conductor, Stan, recommended he look “a bit more Muggle” as he got off.

The bus took him to the central village square, around which clustered several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church with stained-glass windows. A lot of the houses looked old-fashioned, and not at all like the ones in Privet Drive. There was a war memorial in the centre of the square, and when Harry approached to look at it, it shifted from being an obelisk with names, to a statue of a seated couple and a baby. Harry was startled – he hadn’t read anything about this, and had never imagined there would be such a thing. He spent some time gazing at the images of his parents, and his infant self, and plucked a nearby flower to lay at the base of the statue.

Harry headed down a lane that led away from the centre of town and into open country once more, and at the end of a row of houses found Potter Cottage. The hedge surrounding the property was overgrown, and rubble lay scattered in the waist-high grass. Most of the two story building was still standing, but there was a hole on the top floor on the right hand side where a blast of some kind had taken out a portion of the roof, a dormer window, and a small section of wall.

Potter Cottage looked to have been built in a Tudor style, with exposed woodwork showing, and whitewashed plaster over bricks in panels between the decorative dark brown vertical beams. The multi-paned leaded glass windows had a decorative diamond pattern – while most on the top story were broken, the ones on the ground floor looked intact.

When he touched the gate to open it, a sign rose out of the ground in front of him like a fast growing mushroom, and the golden letters on it said:

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family._

Around the edges of the sign previous tourists had scribbled or carved notes like “Thank you Harry!” and “Never forget”, as well as those who simply wrote their name or initials. Harry didn’t know what to think. His house, his old family house, was a _shrine_.

The gate wouldn’t open for him right away, and when he tried to step over it he found it oddly impossible. Then he remembered the amulet, and slipping it over his head he found the gate much more co-operative. He fought his way through the overgrown garden to the front door, and it opened easily at his touch. He closed the door behind him, and started looking around. Nothing was even a little bit familiar, and there was broken furniture everywhere in the lounge room. Knowing he wouldn’t have more than an hour before he’d have to head home lest the Dursleys ask after him, he tried hard not to think about why there was such a mess in here or where his father might have died. He shoved his emotions down hard, put on his ready-for-work face, and started collecting items into his trunk. He also made a bit of a list of the larger items he didn’t have room for, but might potentially be in his parents’ wills as bequests to friends.

From the fireplace mantel he scooped up some photos in frames, and a few decorative vases, a little pottery statuette of a pair of deer, a crystal lily, and a silver candelabra. He checked the walls for paintings but didn’t see any – there were a couple of bare spots on the walls and mantelpiece, though. He gritted his teeth with anger at the thought that someone may have stolen from _his_ parents’ house. From off one of the walls he collected a gilt-edged small round mirror. He wouldn’t be able to take many things that large, though.

From the kitchen he collected a set of crockery with the Potter crest on it, and a lot of cutlery and goblets he thought _might_ be solid silver. It didn’t look very shiny - it had the dull grey-brown patina of silver in dire need of a good polish, rather than the spotless gleam of stainless steel. The handles were elaborate with little decorative curls and flourishes. There were a couple of plates stacked next to the sink with the remains of decade-old meals caked onto them in black patches. Harry tried not to think about his parents eating their last meal, and avoided the plates. They weren’t from the “good” Potter set of crockery, so he really didn’t want them anyway. He found what looked like a set of potions supplies in one tall cupboard, and took the tiny gold cauldron and potion knives; the larger cauldrons he left as they looked very bulky and he needed to conserve space.

The bathroom only had a couple of items of interest he wanted: an old fashioned straight razor that must have belonged to his father, and a lovely little crystal perfume bottle with a stopper that would’ve been his mother’s. He sniffed the perfume and he thought it smelled a little like a Madonna lily, a flowery honey-like scent but not otherwise familiar, to his disappointment. He wrapped the bottle carefully and tightly in a towel so it wouldn’t break or spill.

He was most nervous about going upstairs, and left the ruined area until last. He was very interested to explore his parents’ bedroom. There wasn’t a bookcase in the room, but there was a row of books on top of a bureau, held in place with stone bookends, and he scooped the whole lot into his chest to sort later. He found a carved wooden jewellery box that seemed enchanted to play a sweet lilting tune when you lifted the lid – it teased at the edges of his memory like he’d heard it once in a dream. It _definitely_ was coming with him, and the jewellery inside it too of course. He found a fob watch and some cufflinks in a bedside drawer that must have been his father’s, and a golden Snitch nestled snugly in a little box that he didn’t touch, lest it activate. From the drawers on his mother’s side found what looked like a woodcarving kit of knives in a roll of leather. From the beautiful old carved oak wardrobe Harry collected a number of formal and casual robes, as well as some vests, two cloaks, a soft woolly scarf in Gryffindor colours, and a couple of hats. None of it would fit him yet except the scarf and hats, but he thought it might be nice to be able to have some things of his father’s to wear one day. He wasn’t sure whether to take any clothes of his mother’s or not – it felt awkward. He couldn’t find anything that looked like a wedding dress, and eventually selected a hat box that contained a wreath of dried yellow and white flowers wrapped around a loop of gold coloured wire, that had been carefully packed away in mounds of tissue paper like it was something special. A delicate lace shawl was also picked out to be another memento of his mother.

Harry wasn’t game to explore the attic with half the floor having collapsed, which left only the ruined nursery. He entered very carefully and hesitantly, wary of both the damage to the building, and the memories it might evoke. The first thing he saw was a mouldy white cot, and echoing in his mind was cruel, high laughter, and a flash of green light he knew now must have been the Killing Curse. He grabbed the doorframe for balance, and closed his eyes until the moment passed. He cried for quite a while - it took longer than he thought it should to get himself back under control, thinking about how this was where his mother had died. Eventually he glanced quickly around the room just so he could say to himself that he’d done it. Mouldy white cot on top of a round mouldy hooked rug, faded yellow wardrobe also covered in mould with plush animals on top of it, debris all over the floor, broken lamp, rocking chair warping from exposure to the weather, a bird mobile (possibly owls), a cute metal fireplace guard shaped like the silhouette of a cat, a shelf with books and toys on it, and a few framed pictures above it. He couldn’t discern what the pictures were of from the doorway, but he could see they were unmoving, and not photos.

He took a single wary step into the room, but the floor creaked alarmingly. He retreated immediately. He was leaving. Not because he was scared or upset, he insisted to himself in his mind. Just because he didn’t really want anything from there. It wasn’t safe, and everything was ruined. Besides, he could always come back another time. It was time to go home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my reviewers – I love you all! A special shout out this week to LtsHrIt4ThBoyz and Toraach who’ve been giving me a lot to think about this week, and WhatWouldJackSparrowDo and LeGC who’ve been very encouraging to me to keep on writing. :)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who took the time to share their thoughts on the “I swear on my magic” trope I used briefly in the last fic – consensus appears to agree that it’s fanon, not canon, so I have gone back to change Chapter 20 of “A New Kind of Normal”, where Harry now swears “in Merlin’s name” that no life debt is owed, rather than on his magic.


	5. Return to Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trip back to Hogwarts on the train isn't as peaceful a journey as Harry was hoping for. Why can't people just get along?

**_1 st September, 1992_ **

Harry arrived early at Platform 9 ¾ without incident. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Dudley farewelled him in the parking lot, to avoid the possibility of encountering _their_ kind at Kings Cross Station. He saw Pansy first, she seemed to be waiting for him (or maybe someone else – Harry wasn’t sure) on the wizarding side of the platform.

They got a compartment together, though he warned her that he was expecting Neville and Hermione to join him.

“Not Weasley?”

“Well, I like Ron alright, but I’m not as close to him as I am to Neville and Hermione. He hangs out with Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas too, sometimes. We are friends, though.”

“I’d actually rather you dropped Granger, if you’re going to drop someone.”

“I don’t select my friends solely for your convenience, Pansy,” said Harry testily. “Otherwise I’d be best mates with Malfoy.”

“Would you please, cousin? It’d be so much easier,” she teased. “Don’t worry, I’ll remove myself after Granger arrives and find a new compartment.”

Daphne arrived early too, and stopped by to complain about him not replying to her letters. He explained about his mail problems both house-elf and ward induced, and she said she understood, but she expected at least two letters from him over the next holidays, even if he wasn’t getting _her_ letters. And when asked she said that no, her family didn’t have a house-elf named Dobby.

“You didn’t get my birthday present either, then?” she checked disappointedly. “I sent a cravat. It was Italian silk!”

“Sorry, Daphne,” he apologised. “I’m sure it was lovely, and I’m… uh I am most appreciative of the honour of your gift.”

“What happened to my gift? It never came back – the owl returned unburdened.”

“It is a fine question, but I regret to say I do not have an answer for it. Where are Millicent and Tracey, by the way?”

“They’re reserving us a compartment,” said Daphne. “If you dally too long all the best ones get taken. They send their apologies for not greeting you properly.”

Neville arrived next, and Harry helped him get his trunk up onto the racks. Malfoy stopped by, and since Ron and Hermione hadn’t arrived yet there was a round of polite greetings, and an enquiring look to Pansy.

“No, we’re not staying,” she said to him, “Millicent and Tracey are getting a compartment elsewhere.”

“Vincent’s in there,” added Daphne.

“Potter,” said Malfoy with a slightly nervous look, bowing his head in a polite nod before extending his hand. “I hope that having an established somewhat of a cordial acquaintance last year that we can start this year on a better foot.”

Harry took his hand and shook it. “Certainly, Malfoy.”

Pansy beamed proudly, and Daphne looked like she wanted to squeal, but it wouldn’t be ladylike. Neville looked concerned.

Malfoy headed off after that, and Pansy looked like she was going to follow after him, but Daphne objected. “You can’t leave me Pansy, I’d be unchaperoned with these two!” Neville blushed, looking dreadfully embarrassed.

“Aren’t you ready to go?”

“I just got here! You saw him over summer, but I didn’t.”

So they both stayed, and Daphne told Harry (and incidentally, Neville) all about her summer, journeying through Italy with her family. They’d seen the canals of Venice, stayed at a wizarding holiday resort in Mirto on the island of Sicily, toured a lot of ancient temples (she liked the Pantheon the best), seen the Colosseum (“with a bunch of Muggles”), and visited “the oldest wizarding district in the world” hidden somewhere in Rome.

Harry wanted to ask some questions, but Daphne seemed to just want him to listen and make impressed noises at the right moments. And then it was too late for further discussion, for Hermione arrived.

“Finally! It took me a while to find… oh,” she said, spotting the Slytherins.

“Granger.”

“Parkinson.” The chill in the air was so palpable Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if someone’s magic accidentally made it snow.

“Hermione, darling!” Everyone turned and stared at Daphne, after her overly bright greeting.

“What?” blinked Hermione.

“Don’t you want to be friends and braid each other’s hair? Draco and Harry made friends just a few minutes ago, perhaps we could too.”

Hermione smiled tentatively at Daphne. “I suppose we…”

Daphne let out a snicker, and Hermione’s expression turned stormy. “Oh right, make fun of the Muggle-born. How delightfully amusing. Here I thought you were showing a _touch_ of decency.”

“Daphne, that was quite uncalled for, and most indecorous towards a good friend of mine,” Harry said with a glare and a frown. “If you don’t want to be friends then don’t be – there’s no reason for such jibes.” And here he thought Pansy would be the one to watch.

Daphne looked genuinely repentant at Harry’s formally phrased rebuke. “I’m very sorry, Harry. You’re quite right.”

Rather than be mollified by her apology, however, Hermione became more incensed. “You apologised to _him_? What about _me_? _I’m_ the one you should be apologising to – is this another of your outdated notions?!”

“Sorry Granger. He’ll be the Head of the Noble House of Potter, you see, so as a follower-” started Daphne.

She got interrupted by both Pansy and Hermione trying to speak at once.

“Oh, so he’s a _noble_ now, and I’m what? Just a nobody servant?!” shrieked Hermione.

“Oh, we’re all so _outdated_ , so _quaint_. And aren’t we all having a fun trip on this _quaint_ train. We shouldn’t even _bother_ trying to keep you Muggle-borns happy, it’s all so _quaint_ scant years after we make an effort,” complained Pansy. “So few of you even bother _trying_ to understand wizarding culture. At least Harry is making an effort – why can’t you?”

“I like _some_ of the culture, but just not the sexist and bigoted parts – there’s nothing wrong with that! Sometimes cultures _need_ to change. And I’m not going to do the spiritual stuff – I’m Christian, even if I don’t go to church very often. And I didn’t say a word about the ridiculous old steam train! So why are you ever talking about that?”

“All those Muggle-born families on the platform were cooing over how quaint it was – just like your family did until it was all too much for them. This whole ridiculous trip is your fault! You and the rest of the Muggle-lovers! Complaining about how your parents can’t Apparate; banning portkeys because it’s inequitable and not everyone has the gold! Wanting a _modern_ method that everyone can _bond_ over, that takes _hours_.”

“Can’t we just all settle down?” asked Harry desperately. “Daphne apologised, alright? And Pansy, no-one here said anything about the train. Hermione, you don’t have to learn anything you don’t want to, your family is as good as anyone else’s, and you’re not a servant, everyone knows that.”

“Technically, client would be the right term, given her family background, but then there’s the fact she’s not formally affiliated…” started Daphne, before catching Harry’s icy glare. “Well, she’s not a servant, that’s for sure.”

“See?” said Harry. “And she _is_ affiliated with the Potters – we’re formally sworn friends and allies.”

“Really?” said Daphne, sounding very interested.

“The train _is_ horribly outdated and needs modernising,” said Hermione combatively. Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. She could be so smart, and really did try to learn _some_ aspects of wizarding culture – she didn’t worry about the food, wore robes quite happily, and never fussed about writing with a quill by candlelight. Yet sometimes she would open her mouth and stick her foot right in. He guessed Daphne’s unprovoked insults just now had gotten her really riled up. Nothing seemed to set her off as much as pure-blood bigotry to Muggle-borns.

Neville spoke up stutteringly in her defence. “It’s not s..something the Muggle-borns brought in, Pansy. You can’t blame Hermione for it. They were catching the Hogwarts Express in my parents’ time, too. The _Ministry_ built it.”

“Well it’s not _recent_ ,” she rebutted. “But it _was_ all the idea of Muggle parents. Ottaline Gambol just brought it in.”

“She was Minister in the 1800s! You’re blaming _me_ for something that happened a hundred years ago?!” shouted Hermione. Harry could only assume she’d memorised a list of Ministers of Magic at some point. He had no idea who they were talking about, but then, he didn’t pay quite as much attention in History of Magic as Hermione did, and certainly didn’t have the spare time she did for free reading.

“Building and enchanting this stupid modern train system almost bankrupted Hogwarts!” yelled Pansy. “And you’re still not happy! Oh no, let’s free the house-elves, let’s bankrupt Hogwarts a second time trying to give you everything you want! You think servants work for free? We need house-elves!”

Ron knocked and opened the door just in time to catch Hermione screeching about slavery and equal rights and Pansy calling her a “prattling ignoramus”.

“You know what?” he said, backing out of their carriage. “I think we’ll find another compartment. See you at Hogwarts, Harry. C’mon Ginny.” A shy red-headed girl peeked around her brother’s side to gaze at Harry, but Ron shut the door almost immediately. Harry kind of wished he could leave too.

He looked around the compartment optimistically for inspiration. Neville was shrinking in his seat – no further help was coming from that quarter. Daphne was smirking, enjoying the show.

“Daphne,” he hissed urgently.

“Yes?” she asked sweetly, as Pansy loudly called Hermione a “low-born God-botherer”, and Hermione shrieked in return that she was a “stuck-up slave driver”.

“If you can get them to calm down, and get Pansy out of here, I’ll owe you a favour.”

“A big favour?”

“Depends how well you do, alright?” he whispered desperately.

“Pansy darling!” Daphne called loudly. Pansy stopped for a moment in her tirade and turned to Daphne, eyes still flashing furiously. “What _would_ dear Draco say if he came to investigate the noise of two harpies shrieking at each other in such a fashion?” asked Daphne, with an air of concern. “The Malfoy family would never approve such a display. This fight really isn’t worth it – neither of you will convince the other of your viewpoint, so let’s be on our way lest our reputations be besmirched by such a public fracas.”

“Yes, quite,” sniffed Pansy. “I know when reason will not avail.”

“Reason!” screeched Hermione. “Witches like you don’t even know the meaning of the word! Slavery is never _reasonable_.”

“She _is_ rather like a harpy, isn’t she?” said Pansy, smiling tightly. Daphne linked her arm through Pansy’s, and led her out of the compartment, with a little smile and nod of her head to Harry. He nodded with sheer relief. Whatever it cost him, it had totally been worth it.

Hermione, bereft of her preferred target, turned her glare on Harry and Neville, who shrank before it.

“And what do _you_ think of house-elf slavery?”

Harry spoke swiftly and decisively. “It’s wrong. Very, very wrong.” Neville nodded in mute agreement.

As the train pulled away from the station and started its long journey, they listened to Hermione rant passionately about house-elves and her plans to “do something about it”. Perhaps some kind of organisation to focus on liberating them.

“If you want to change things, you are going to have to understand us better – know more about our culture. Most people love their house-elves – they wouldn’t hurt them like the one Harry’s met,” Neville said, looking a bit nervous. “We’ve got one at home at the manor…”

“Oh, Neville,” she sighed. “Still, mother does say cultural change needs to come from within,” mused Hermione. “Us and them though? Really? I’m a witch, aren’t I part of ‘us’?”

“Hermione, I ah… I’m only saying this to help…” Neville started nervously.

“It’s okay, I promise I’ll try not to get mad if it comes out a bit wrong,” said Hermione soothingly. “I _know_ you know I’m a witch. I know _you’re_ not a bigot about my origins. Or you, Harry.”

Harry nodded politely. He wasn’t going to interrupt Neville. Neville usually found it hard to speak up and disagree with people. Harry knew that feeling. Arguing with the Dursleys was always a risky proposition, and he suspected Neville’s family was a bit the same, especially that murderously inclined great-uncle of his. If he interjected and broke Neville’s flow, he might lose his courage with a self-deprecating mutter that his opinion didn’t really matter. He did that sometimes.

Neville looked relieved by Hermione’s reassurance. “So, perchance a metaphor would be of assistance. Let us say you visit France, possibly planning to stay for years, and you speak French _really_ well. But you tell everyone there how ridiculous the Eiffel tower is, and how barbaric it is to eat frog legs, and how all the shops are much better in England - how French do you think you’d seem to the locals?”

Hermione looked very taken aback, then drooped a bit. In a small and quiet voice, she said, “Oh. I’m an annoying tourist, aren’t I.”

“I’m both ‘us’ and ‘them’,” volunteered Harry. “I don’t want to choose. Not yet, anyway. I think you need to think of house-elves as being a bit like pet cats for them. Err… us. Whatever. That is, some people mistreat their pets, but most people don’t see that as a reason to ban everyone from owning cats. Even if some crazy vegans think it’s animal enslavement. I’m not saying it’s _right_ , how they treat house-elves, mind you. I don’t think that at all.”

“I’m an annoying, tourist, crazy vegan activist,” sighed Hermione. “…I’ll try. I’ll try and understand, and eat the frog legs. I’m planning to stay – I’m not just a tourist. I’m an immigrant.”

“Then I guess it’s time to try a frog.” Neville rummaged in his pockets and passed her a chocolate frog. “It might be a bit melted from being in my pocket,” he apologised.

“I meant metaphorically, but thanks, Neville.”

“It’s a _metaphorical_ chocolate frog,” he said, with a smile. “It’s showing we’ll help you.”

“It’s not all bad stuff,” said Harry encouragingly. “I stick with Pansy because she’s family, and I know she can be trying at times, but that doesn’t mean all the cultural stuff isn’t interesting, or worthwhile. Sure, there’s definitely bigotry there too sometimes, I’m not saying there’s not. But not in everything, and not everyone. And you know sometimes you’ve got to just cope with the world the way it is.”

Hermione unwrapped the chocolate frog, and it lurched out of the wrapper. Its lower body was melted, and it looked a bit horrifying trying to hop with its half-melted back legs leaving a trail of chocolate sludge behind it.

“Ew,” she said. “Will it ruin the metaphor if I don’t eat it after all?” They all looked at it.

“Maybe just eat the good bit?” suggested Harry. “That’s metaphorical too.”

She nibbled cautiously at the head.

“And ah… are your parents alright with your plans to emigrate?” Harry asked cautiously. “They were pretty mad at in Diagon Alley. Were you okay – you didn’t get in any trouble?”

“Oh, they know that a couple of bad apples don’t actually spoil the whole barrel. They support me learning magic since it’s what I really want. And of course I didn’t get in trouble – they weren’t mad at _me_.”

Harry was relieved. He’d thought her parents were nice people – she’d never said anything to suggest otherwise, but he’d worried a little all the same. The Dursleys acted nice in public too.

Harry brought the conversation back to house-elves, and advised researching the topic before acting. “It would be wise to read up on house-elves, and talk to some if you can find them, before acting precipitously. I _have_ heard from multiple sources that they will suffer if removed from their homes – that they need to be bonded by the owner. You don’t wish to run afoul of any charms or curses on them that will harm them if freed, right? You want to approach this project _rationally_ , don’t you?”

Hermione agreed that they could all hit the books, which wasn’t precisely what he’d suggested, but the boys both agreed they’d help. Harry had wanted to find out more about house-elves anyway, since he had one as a crazed stalker. Enslaving house-elves _was_ wrong. It would be a hard thing, to work your fingers to the bone for a family who didn’t appreciate you or clothe you properly, insulted you, and who punished you severely for the slightest…

He really didn’t want to think about it any more. He determinedly changed the topic to a discussion of summer homework, to everyone’s satisfaction and quiet relief.

***

After a disturbing carriage ride to the castle (skeletal horses – _really_?), Ron approached them warily as they entered the Great Hall.

“Everything alright, then?” he asked, with a nervous look at Hermione.

“Yeah, all good now mate,” assured Harry.

He looked relieved, and sat with them at the table. “My little sister’s being Sorted soon,” he said. “Ginny’s the last Weasley to go to Hogwarts. Mum was being a right sook about it – kept wanting us to stop packing to hug, and nagged us to make sure we had everything. And even with all of that Ginny forgot her diary, and we had to go back for it. It almost made us late for the train. Keep your fingers crossed for Gryffindor, hey?”

Harry crossed his fingers politely, and silently wished for Ginny to go to Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. It didn’t work, though. He congratulated Ron on his sister’s sorting with hollow courtesy. At least she didn’t try and sit with them – either because there wasn’t much room, or she was too shy. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he’d feared.

After checking that Harry wasn’t planning to rejoin the Quidditch team (as he’d heard gossip that said Harry was going to try for Seeker again), Ron shared his plans to try out for a position himself. “Jack Sloper was rubbish as Seeker last year – not half as good as you were, Harry. I’d like to go for Keeper, but Wood’s not going to give up his spot – and he’s good. I know I’ll have some competition for Seeker of course – as well as Sloper I just heard from Fred that Kirke in Third Year will be trying out, and Dunbar, whoever that is.”

“That would be Fay Dunbar from my dorm I expect,” volunteered Hermione. “She’s a big Quidditch fan – it’s all she ever talks about. It’s so dull.”

“Quidditch isn’t dull!”

“It’s not as interesting as studying magic, surely you’d admit that much?”

Harry made shushing motions at Ron inconspicuously behind Hermione’s back. The last thing they needed was another fight.

“Whatever,” huffed Ron, seeing Harry’s desperate gestures. “So will you lend me your broom for tryouts, Harry?”

Harry stilled as Hermione turned her attention in his direction, and hesitated before responding to Ron. “You won’t break it? It’d be quite expensive to replace.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t break it and make you buy a new one.”

“Good, because if you break it _you_ will buy me a new one.”

Ron paled, freckles standing out in sharp relief. “I won’t break it, I swear.” He hesitated a moment in thought. “Maybe I could practice with it a bit before Saturday? To get the feel of it?”

“That’s a good idea,” Harry said approvingly. “It’s got more delicate handling than the school brooms, and they say the acceleration is in a totally different league.” They made an arrangement for Ron to borrow it every morning before classes, until the tryouts on Saturday, with no promises as yet about ongoing borrowing of it after that.

“You’re not using it anyway,” grumbled Ron. “It’s just going to waste. A Nimbus 2000 gathering dust, it’s a crying shame.”

“I’m not using it _yet_ ,” replied Harry. “We’re not allowed to go to Hogsmeade until third year, which is ridiculously restrictive, probably on purpose to acculturate us. I’ll use it next year, for sure. I do like flying, you know.”

Ron continued to plead for ongoing use of Harry’s broom until Harry threatened to not let him use it for tryouts after all, at which point he quickly backed off.

***

They started out their first day of school with double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs. Waiting at the greenhouses was the squat little Professor Sprout with her patched hat, who led them to Greenhouse Three to repot some mandrakes. Ernie grabbed Harry and Neville for his group of four, and introduced them to his curly-haired friend Justin Finch-Fletchley, who told them all about how he’d been originally down for Eton, and how great Professor Lockhart’s books were.

“I wish I’d gone to Eton,” sighed Harry. “I was just down for the local comprehensive.”

“Magic’s pretty amazing though, don’t you think Potter?” said Finch-Fletchley. “Imagine fighting off a werewolf in a telephone box with just a single spell, like Lockhart!”

“I read about that – it sounded dangerous, it’d be easy to get scratched,” said Harry. “He didn’t say how he avoided that. I wonder how he did.”

“We have Defence this afternoon – you should ask him,” suggested Neville.

After their short chat they had to focus on their work – it was a lot harder than Harry had expected, and they all left class rather grubby and tired.

A short wash later, and they were fit for Transfiguration, turning beetles into buttons; which Harry thought was both cruel and pointless. When were they going to need a button, and have a beetle handy? He understood it was establishing good technique, for working their way up to larger and more useful transfigurations, but it was just frustrating. They couldn’t conjure edible food – _that_ would have made Transfiguration actually useful, but Professor McGonagall said it was impossible, though food could be enlarged or multiplied. She advised him to read up on Gamp’s Laws of Elemental Transfiguration and their exceptions, if he was interested, but that it was a topic covered in later years. It sounded like a good topic to read up on before the summer holidays started, in case the Dursleys changed their minds and didn’t like his improved class results. He could make a cache of food to hide in his trunk. He had enough to study this year already though, and a regular supply of food, so wasn’t going to worry about it for now.

At lunch Hermione got laughingly teased by Ron for having little hearts outlining all of Lockhart’s lessons on her timetable. And Harry met a new fan – one of the new firsties. After finding that Colin Creevey didn’t seem to understand the words “no” or “I’d rather just be treated like everyone else”, he grudgingly allowed him to take a photo of him, which Draco snickered about as he walked by with his friends, like he couldn’t help it. Harry thought it was fair enough – he might’ve laughed too if it hadn’t been him suffering. Ron was offended on his behalf though, and muttered darkly about Malfoy picking on Gryffindors all the way to DADA. Harry thought Ron didn’t know what real bullying was.

The new Defence teacher, Professor Lockhart, looked resplendent in fashionably styled turquoise robes, with his blonde hair shining under a matching pointed turquoise hat with gold trimmings. The class started with a pop quiz about the books he’d assigned, or more precisely, a quiz about Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry had read the first few chapters of each of the books (and all of the one about trolls, in case they came across more of them at school), and knew they had a lot of superfluous personal detail, but had never expected they’d be tested on it. He’d assumed it was to make the books more like readable stories (they were rather engaging, if confusing in parts), and less like textbooks. Harry struggled gamely through the quiz, but had to guess a lot of the answers. It was unaccustomedly frustrating. If the final year exam was going to be all about knowing about things like their teacher’s favourite colour, it was going to be a ridiculously useless class this year. He wished Professor Quirrell was still at Hogwarts instead of this puffed up peacock.

His opinion plummeted further after fighting off a classroom full of mischievous Cornish pixies. Harry got Neville down from the ceiling with a Levitation Charm, while taking cover behind a desk. Hermione used a Freezing Charm to immobilise some pixies, and after he’d checked Neville was alright (shaken, but unharmed) Harry joined in similarly. Neville and Ron shoved the immobilised pixies back in the cage. Hermione seemed to appreciate the “hands-on” learning experience, but Ron and Harry were unimpressed.

“Hermione, he didn’t have a clue what he was doing,” complained Harry. “He didn’t teach us a single spell before letting out the pixies, which I might add were _not_ covered in the first few chapters of _any_ of his books. And he didn’t cast a single useful spell before one got his wand off him – and I can think of a dozen that would work on pixies. Depending on whether you wanted them alive or not.”

“You can’t kill pixies! They’re protected,” objected Neville, despite their earlier attack on him.

“He wanted to see what we could do in a sudden emergency,” said Hermione defensively. “You just have to read his books to see all the amazing things he’s done. Pixies are so easy for him that he doesn’t think of them as a challenge.”

“The things he _says_ he’s done,” muttered Ron. Harry thought it was a good point - Ron had his moments. The books did have some odd inconsistencies, here and there, and were light on detail sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mergirl007, History, and Stefan Bathory for their constructive suggestions about Hermione.


	6. Fame and its Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets some new fans, Ron tries out for the Quidditch team, Harry and Hermione discuss their study plans, and detentions are assigned.

**_September 1992_ **

Harry avoided Lockhart whenever he saw him around the school – the man kept trying to talk to him since they were “both so famous” and he wanted none of it. Colin Creevey was even worse, and Harry had to take him aside for a quiet talk about wizarding etiquette, and the inappropriateness of persistently calling him by his first name without permission, which he hadn’t given. He didn’t stop trailing after Harry, but his greeting changed to “All right, Potter?” which Harry supposed was a start.

Owl post on the first Friday of term brought Harry his first correspondence course assignment to work on (a TMA – or “Tutor-marked Assignment”) for English, and from Dudley there was a letter chatting about his great History grade for the summer assignment Harry had helped with – Dudley got a very rare B. He’d also enclosed some notes on what they’d be studying in various subjects this year, and a copy of his next History assignment requirements. Harry was looking forward to a quiet Saturday in the library getting a head start on his normal schoolwork.

Ron, however, had other ideas, and woke up a groggy Harry at dawn while there was still a thin mist across the pink and gold sky.

“C’mon Harry, it’s Quidditch trials this morning!” he said with far too much enthusiasm, in Harry’s opinion.

“Sure, take the broom,” waved Harry sleepily, grabbing his wand off the bedside table and reaching over to tap his trunk with it to unlock the lid. He put his wand back down and curled back up in his blankets like he was making a cocoon.

Ron rummaged in Harry’s trunk. “Harry, what’s all this stuff in here?” he said confusedly. “Is this a set of dishes? Why are there plates in your trunk?”

Harry sat up and blinked tiredly. “Oh, sorry. I still have lots of stuff in there I need to take to my Gringotts vault when I get a chance.”

“But why do you have a mirror and plates stuffed in there?”

“They belonged to my parents,” Harry said quietly. “I got the opportunity to reclaim some of their belongings, and I needed to keep them somewhere. I can’t keep them at the Dursleys’.”

“Why not?”

“They… don’t like magic. And the jewellery, well, I don’t want Aunt Petunia to… look, I just want to keep it safe, okay?” Harry was feeling flustered - he didn’t like having to explain his rather complex relationship with the Dursleys, and wasn’t feeling his brightest this early in the morning.

“Okay, okay, Merlin’s beard, take it easy, Harry.” Ron carefully pushed aside a robe and found the broom – luckily it wasn’t too far down in the big pile of belongings crammed in the trunk. “Got it!”

“Great,” grumbled Harry.

“C’mon, let’s go!”

“What?”

“Quidditch trials, you’re coming too, right?”

“Do I have to?” whined Harry. “It’s so early! I like getting to sleep in at school. And I was going to go to the library today.”

“C’mon Harry,” wheedled Ron, “I came to _your_ Quidditch practices. You can go to the library afterwards. Trials will be really quick, I promise. I need someone to cheer me on. Aren’t we friends?”

Harry got up with a grumble, but Ron was just happy he was coming.

“I can bring a book, right?”

Ron sighed. “You and Hermione – two peas in a pod. Why don’t you just draw up the nuptial contract now to save time.”

“Mmm hmm,” said Harry sleepily as he changed into a casual robe. “Wait, what?” Ron laughed at him, and dragged him down to the Quidditch pitch, trailed by the ever-intrusive Colin Creevey who’d spotted them on their way through the common room.

***

Wood was in a mood after feeling let down by Harry’s appearance – he’d hoped it meant Harry was going to try out for the team again and was disappointed to hear it meant nothing of the kind. Ron’s average performance failed to impress Wood, and the spot of Seeker went to Fay Dunbar, with Kirke as a reserve (despite him being older).

Seeing his opportunity for Quidditch glory slipping away from him, Ron was looking quite disconsolate, so Harry encouraged him to talk to Wood about being a reserve for Keeper. It worked a treat – Wood expected that Ron wouldn’t get any opportunities to play, but he could join in the Gryffindor practices as an understudy. In Ron’s Fourth Year, he should be ready to join the team as an experienced Keeper, as Wood would graduate at the end of next year. Harry gave Ron plenty of congratulations, making sure to sound very impressed, and Ron was ecstatic as he got to go join in the team practice after all.

Harry had taken a book to read (the Smeltings History textbook), but ended up spending almost the entire trial explaining the rules of Quidditch to Creevey, who listened with rapt attention, and took lots of photos of the flyers.

The Slytherin team arrived an hour or so into their practice session after the conclusion of trials, just as Harry was wondering if Ron would notice if he left for the library. Ron had promised it would be quick – maybe the trials were but this part was just taking forever and reaffirming for Harry that quitting the team had been a smart call. It was much less fun to watch Quidditch than to play it.

Harry wandered down onto the pitch as he saw the Gryffindors land to talk to the Slytherin team – it looked like they might be finished. Creevey followed like an eager puppy.

Harry arrived in time to hear Draco boasting about being the new Slytherin seeker, and his team’s new brooms.

“I see _you_ didn’t get on the Gryffindor team, Weasley,” he sneered. “It seems even Gryffindor doesn’t want to be tainted by blood traitors.”

There was laughter from the Slytherins, but uproar from the Gryffindors, who started a fight. Alicia was shrieking, and Ron’s brothers had to be held back by Flint from pummelling Draco to a bloody pulp.

Ron cast a spell on Draco that made him vomit slugs, and one of the Slytherins cast the leg-locker spell back at Ron, and another hit Harry with the Jelly-Legs Jinx. Flint and Wood roared for the fight to stop, and a couple of _Finites_ later to undo some spells the teams separated, with Gryffindor grumpily yielding the Quidditch pitch to the Slytherins.

Flint took one of his taller, heavily built Chasers aside for a quick word and Draco joined in the huddle, before Flint shoved the dark haired boy towards Harry – it was the boy who’d jinxed him just a minute earlier.

“Graham Montague,” he said, introducing himself stiffly. “I apologise for attacking – I assumed you would come to your ally’s aid.”

“Harry Potter. I’m not allied with the Weasley family, though I am a friend of Ron’s. I am in fact attempting to stay neutral in Ron’s feud with Draco.”

“A backstabbing snake like you wouldn’t know anything about friendship,” sniped Ron. “We don’t need all that formality.”

“Sorry, look, we’d better go,” said Harry, dragging Ron away as Montague scowled darkly after them. Montague blinked as a flash went off in his face – Creevey had taken his photograph.

***

After putting Harry’s broom safely away, Ron peeled off to find Seamus and Dean to talk about Quidditch, after hearing Harry’s very uninspiring plans to study History in the library.

Harry grabbed his Smeltings History notes and folder, and his correspondence course English assignment notes, and joined Hermione and Neville in the library. Neville was working on Potions and Herbology, as usual. Hermione was reading up on Transfiguration, and Harry spotted a copy of the _Pure-Blood Directory_ tucked away in the middle her pile of books, but decided not to say anything about it.

“Hermione?”

“Oh, Harry! You’re here at last!” Hermione made a space for him at the table.

“Yes, Ron’s gotten a spot as reserve Keeper, but the practice got cut short – the Slytherins had the pitch booked too.”

“He’ll be disappointed,” said Neville worriedly, “he really wanted to be on the team.”

“He’s okay, just be sure to still be impressed with him being a reserve and he’ll be happy as a clam.”

“What?”

“Uh, happy as a Niffler with a pile of gold?” hazarded Harry.

“Right,” nodded Neville.

“Hermione, I’m keeping up again this year with normal subjects – most of them by a proper correspondence course now,” said Harry, spreading out his work. “I know you said last year that you weren’t interested, but I well… I was just wondering if maybe you’d changed your mind?”

“No Harry, I really need to focus on what’s important for my future. I don’t understand why you’re not doing the same. I could help you bring your grades up if you like? You can borrow my notes.”

“Hermione, he _is_ focusing on things important for his future,” chided Neville gently. “He’s just got different plans to you.”

Hermione blushed. “Sorry, Harry. I guess that was kind of rude of me. It’s just… I know you do so well when you really try. And my parents always want me to do the best I can in everything.”

“It’s alright, I know what you meant. And Nev’s right about the different plans - I really want to keep my educational options open so I can maybe go to university when I graduate. And well, the Dursleys actually want me to do better this year, so I _will_ be working on improving my grades this year, but I still like to make my own notes. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Sure, I know you like to stick with your own method. So why does it matter if I’m studying with you or not?”

Harry thought about it. “I guess it doesn’t. I just feel like you’re so smart, and you love studying, so I’m sure you could cope with doing both. Keep _your_ options open too.”

She smiled at him, flattered. “Thanks. But I don’t want to. Just like you don’t want to split your attention between studying and Quidditch. There’s only so much time in the day.”

“Point,” Harry conceded with a sigh. “I guess we both think the other should be copying us!” he laughed. “It would’ve been nice to have a buddy to practise French with. That’s been the hardest of Du... of my subjects.”

“Oh! Parlez-vous Français? La France est un pays merveilleux.”

“Juste un petit peu,” replied Harry, sounding much more British in his accent than Hermione.

Hermione winced. “Well, that’s a… start. I’ve visited France with my family a few times for holidays – that helps a lot.”

“Yeah, I know it’s bad. It’s hard to get it sounding right based just off the pronunciation guide in the textbook. I’m guessing at a lot.”

“Well, I don’t have _much_ spare time, but I can help you with French, here and there,” she offered, and Harry gratefully accepted.

“Have you ever tried frog legs?” he teased.

“No,” she said, looking embarrassed. He grinned at her. “Maybe next visit,” she said, with a sigh.

“It’s going to be a lot of work, keeping up with so many subjects,” she said worriedly, chewing at her lip. “I do worry that you would’ve done better last year if you hadn’t been trying to juggle Muggle and magical subjects.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said uncomfortably. “I’m used to hard work. And I don’t need straight O’s.”

“Someone in Hufflepuff was trying to keep up with Muggle subjects last year.”

“Really?” he said, interested. “Who is it? Maybe we could study together.”

“Sally-Anne Perks. And you can’t study with her, unfortunately. Her parents pulled her out of Hogwarts; they said her grades were falling too badly. Susan was telling me about in in Herbology.”

Harry sighed. There was a missed opportunity. If only he’d known.

At lunch, McGonagall called Harry and Ron away from the table in the Great Hall, and talked with them sternly. When they returned to the table, the ever-curious Hermione wanted to know what it was all about.

“She gave us both detentions,” grumbled Ron.

“Really? What for? What did you do?” asked Hermione.

“Oh, like we must be in the wrong?” complained Ron.

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed. “Hermione did better than McGonagall – _she_ didn’t even bother to ask what we did, she just assumed we were guilty based on hearsay. She didn’t ask for our side of the story, can you believe it? I’d expect it from Snape, but it’s a bit rough to get that kind of treatment from our own Head of House.”

“We got in a fight with the Slytherins at Quidditch,” explained Ron, “I jinxed Malfoy, but Harry didn’t even do anything except get hit by a spell. I’ve got detention tonight with Filch polishing trophies, and Harry’s got to report to Lockhart to help him answer his fan mail.”

***

That evening at eight o’clock, Harry reported to Lockhart’s office on the second floor – the door flew open as soon as he knocked, and Lockhart beamed down at him. After some cordial formal greetings, Harry settled down to address envelopes for his teacher’s replies to fan mail, trying to ignore the smiling pictures of Lockhart covering the walls. It was a bit creepy to observe how much Lockhart liked the sight of his own face.

“So, you’re very famous, right?” he asked after a while, as the boredom got to him, and he tired of hearing stories about Lockhart’s fans.

Lockhart beamed at him. “Rather a bit. Of course, you’re famous too, aren’t you Harry?” he nodded at Harry’s scar. “Of course, it’s not quite as good as winning _Witch Weekly’s_ Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row - but it’s a _start_ , Harry.”

Harry laughed appreciatively at the joke, and Lockhart grinned and winked at him. “So can I ask you for some advice, sir? About coping with being famous?”

“I would be most honoured to mentor you, Harry!” said Lockhart happily. “I do have some small experience in managing one’s fame, after all.”

“So I’ve got a fan, Colin Creevey – he keeps trying to take pictures of me, and I’d rather he just left me alone. Do you have any advice on dissuading him, and the others who whisper about me in the halls, and playing down my fame so people treat me more ordinarily?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you want to be famous?”

“Why would you _want_ to be famous?”

They stared blankly at each other, each bemused by the other’s attitude.

“Alright,” said Harry slowly after an uncomfortable silence, as he grasped that they had fundamental philosophical differences, “then perhaps you can give me some different advice on being famous, given I don’t really have much of a choice about being well-known.

“What’s the best way to manage being famous, so that people aren’t disappointed in you or angry, but also don’t start demanding unreasonable things of you, or bothering you when you’d rather be left alone? Like Creevey trying to take photos of me in the Common Room?”

Lockhart talked about giving fans staged opportunities to meet you so that you were accessible periodically – then other times could be private. “That way no-one needs to intrude in your personal time because they have other, set opportunities to meet you. Even I like some privacy, Harry! No wonder it’s overwhelming for a young boy like yourself. There’s time enough to build your reputation and alliances later.”

He gave Harry a good tip about encouraging fans to talk about themselves if they ask too many intrusive questions. “Everyone loves to think you’re interested in them – and if you appear fascinated in their lives, they’ll stop asking about the details of yours. Some people obsess over the silliest little details in my books, instead of focusing on the bigger picture.”

And his last advice was what he thought truly critical to good management of one’s fan base – prompt answering of fan mail. “Which is what we’re doing now, of course! Remember to include plenty of flattery in return – the same level they used in their letter. I find it’s good to set aside a couple of hours a week for answering mail. How are you going juggling that with your homework, Harry?”

“Uh, fine. I don’t get any fan mail.”

Lockhart put down his fancy Fwooper plume quill and stared at him. “Not _any_?”

“No, I’ve never had a single letter like that. Actually, I’ve been told I might have some problems with a mail or owl ward of some kind. A few friends haven’t even been able to write to me at all, their letters get lost.”

“That’s dreadful!” said Lockhart, looking appalled. “You mean to say you’ve never gotten a _single_ owl from anyone thanking you for destroying Voldemort, or say, inviting you to their business opening?” Harry shook his head. “Did… did you even get my own little note in June introducing myself and letting you know I would be your teacher for Defence Against the Dark Arts this year?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. I don’t even get my vault statements from Gringotts, so the wards must really be something. It was either that, or this crazy house-elf fan who was stealing my mail for a while. You don’t own an elf named Dobby, by any chance?”

“Goodness! Well, this can’t stand,” said Lockhart, looking determined. “You’ll offend people left and right if you keep ignoring their mail.”

“I’m not!”

“Not on purpose, but it will seem like that to all your correspondents, Harry. You need to get this odd house-elf off your back too – maybe try giving him an autographed tea towel, they like those. And that owl ward has simply _got_ to go.”

“I don’t know how, sir. Someone told me I might need a Warder or Curse Breaker, but they didn’t know how to find one. I have money to pay for their services, if I can locate one to employ.”

“Don’t worry about it another moment,” said Lockhart, giving Harry a comforting pat on his shoulder as if Harry was distraught, which he wasn’t. “I won’t rest until I’ve found someone to free you from this dreadful curse.”

Harry blinked. Well, he wouldn’t have called it a “dreadful curse”, but it certainly did need fixing. “I’d be most appreciative of any assistance you could offer in this matter, sir,” he said, with a polite bow of his head.

“And perhaps you could do me a little favour in return?” said Lockhart, whom Harry instantly decided must have been in Slytherin at school.

“What did you have in mind?” he asked warily.

“A joint interview with the Daily Prophet, where you mention how much you enjoy my class, perhaps?”

“I don’t want to be in the paper!” said Harry, alarmed. More fame was the _last_ thing he needed.

They negotiated for a little while, and settled on Harry supplying a signed document with a couple of favourable quotes about Lockhart and DADA that the paper could use, along with a single photo featuring both of them. He refused to be interviewed or go to the paper for a photo, and they eventually agreed that if Creevey could take a good photo, that would do. (Lockhart advised that it may even assuage Creevey’s hunger for interaction, to be so acknowledged.) In return for which Lockhart would arrange for a professional with experience in taking down owl wards to remove or adjust Harry’s ward, at Harry’s expense, but with any travel expenses, negotiations, or paperwork assistance required provided by Lockhart. And, as a last minute thought, Harry decided to ask for some passes to the Restricted Section as well.

“Oh, and would you mind signing a couple of passes to the Restricted Section for me? There’s some books I need for research,” asked Harry.

“Really? I’m not sure…,” hesitated Lockhart.

“My last Defence teacher was always happy to help,” sighed Harry, sounding disappointed, “ _he_ was a really great teacher.” He hoped he wasn’t overdoing it as he assumed a hurt and wistful expression. “He understood one needs to research higher level spells sometimes, for the best essays.”

“Oh, well if it’s standard practice,” said Lockhart, scribbling out his name on two blank library forms from his desk with barely a glance at them. “I wouldn’t want you to fail your assignments, Harry.”

“Thanks Professor! You’re the best!” beamed Harry. Lockhart cheered up immediately. Harry was very pleased. Quirrell always used to write the titles of books down on the forms – these new ones were licenses to borrow whatever he wanted, by filling in any titles he identified later. These were _definitely_ better.

They worked on Lockhart’s fan mail for a little while longer after that, until Harry, very tired and hoping the detention would be over soon despite the beneficial plans it had fostered, heard a chilling voice, hissing from nowhere.

“ _Come… come to me… let me rip you… let me tear you… let me kill you…_ ”

Lockhart said he hadn’t heard anything, and noticing the time (it was almost midnight), sent Harry off to bed promptly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lockhart was in fact in Ravenclaw – Harry has guessed wrong. However, we are assured by JKR that Lockhart was almost placed in Slytherin, so Harry wasn’t too far off.
> 
> Translations: “Do you speak French? France is a wonderful country.” “Just a little.” If there’s any errors in the French, please assume Harry and Hermione aren’t expert speakers of that language! :)
> 
> Thank you to all the lovely reviewers who took the time to share their thoughts (and outrageous but very welcome flattery) last chapter. Mwah! Thank you all!


	7. Lessons Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor McGonagall discusses Hogwarts fees with Harry, who is not impressed. Harry's talk with Madam Pomfrey leads to a very revelatory discussion about wizarding medicine. And his private practice of spells leads him into trouble.

**_September 1992_ **

Harry told Neville about the voice he’d heard, and Neville suggested it was probably the Bloody Baron passing by – he was the most frightening of the castle’s ghosts. Ghosts tended to fixate on their pasts, and if they didn’t concentrate, or were in a low magical area, they’d start re-enacting the pivotal events that led to their deaths.

“Why does it matter if there’s a lot of magic in the area or not?” asked Harry, curious.

“I don’t know sorry, it’s just what I’ve heard. That ghosts in Muggle areas are more mindless, and more prone to echoing just a few things from their lives,” Neville explained apologetically.

“Hmm, interesting. Do you think there’s ghost-fighting spells? Could he hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know. I hope not! Surely not if he’s a House ghost?”

They both sat thoughtfully for a while before Neville broke the silence. “By the way Harry, I wanted to say thanks for the wand.”

“Your new birthday one?”

“Yes, Charms in particular has been so much easier with my new wand! I’ve been trying out both the past month, and while I love having my dad’s wand, having my own is making such a difference. So thanks again.” Neville gave him a little formal bow of gratitude, since they were in the relative privacy of the House common room, and Harry did a polite nod of acknowledgment in return.

Charms was more interesting this year for Harry too, as with his new grade goal of an E (Flitwick wasn’t accepting anything less from him anyway) he was participating a bit more in class discussions, and thought it safe to ask an occasional question. (Flitwick seemed to favour students who asked intelligent questions more than those who merely answered them, something Hermione hadn’t seemed to quite grasp yet despite his hints to her about toning it down.) The magical theory they were working on at the moment was concentrating on building magical power at the point of a wand before releasing it – Harry had never focused on the feel of magic flowing through the wand before – he’d thought you just waved the wand and said the magic words. He was forced to admit it was fascinating.

This year in Charms they would also be learning a variety of new spells such as the very useful Engorgement Charm and its counter-spell, the Shrinking Charm. Many spells in this year’s book were ones Harry had practised last year, such as the Fire-Making and Light Charms, so it should be an easy subject to coast through – he’d be able to spend more study time on Muggle subjects, and his own Charms projects like practising the Shield spell, the Disillusionment Charm, and Apparition. The first one he’d been working on since first year for general defence – it was proving to be fiendishly difficult, and it was hard to practice without a partner to test the strength of his shield. The last two were spells he’d read up on in books on Charms from his parents’ collection (which was half novels and half spell books), as the most likely to help him sneak away from Hogsmeade next year undetected. His invisibility cloak in combination with the Knight Bus would be a good backup plan if need be, but the bus would be more time consuming than Apparition, and he knew the Headmaster could see through his cloak somehow. Apparition sounded a bit frightening to get wrong, so he was starting with pure theory.

***

A few weeks into term, Harry was asked to report to Professor McGonagall’s office. After an exchange of casual greetings and asking after his health (fine, thank you), she got down to business.

“Now Harry, as the Deputy Headmistress I need to speak with you about an irregularity with the automatic payment of your Hogwarts fees this year. I hope there’s no problem with the goblins, or overspending? Your payment never arrived in the Hogwarts vault, you see.”

“No Professor, there’s still plenty of gold in my vault. I’m not sure what… Oh, I know!” he said, realising what the problem must be. “I cancelled access to my vault for anyone other than myself,” he explained, omitting that Neville would also have access, for emergencies.

“Oh! Well you seem to have accidentally cancelled the automatic withdrawal of funds for Hogwarts tuition, Mr. Potter.”

“I realise that now ma’am, I apologise for my inadvertent error. I do appreciate that you and Professor Dumbledore purchased me a broom with my funds when I required it, but I would prefer to be in full charge of my own finances in the future.”

“Your own money paid for that? Are you sure?” Professor McGonagall looked startled – perhaps she hadn’t been in on the plan after all, despite being the one to send him the broom.

“Yes ma’am, I have reviewed my vault statement – it makes it quite clear that Professor Dumbledore withdrew money for ‘essential transportation needs’ for myself around the right date. There is little doubt.”

“I thought… he said it was a gift,” she said, looking concerned.

Harry fumed on the inside, but kept his expression serious and calm.

“A gift for me purchased with my own money is a paltry kind of gift,” said Harry, sitting up straight with a stiff back in the approved fashion for a politely offended pure-blood. This week Pansy had been working with him again on his body language.

“I’m sure he meant it for the best,” she said, with feeble optimism. “After all, you don’t have a way to access your vault during term, and you really did need a new broom, as Seeker.”

“That as may be, it should have been a decision I was consulted on.”

“Well yes, that seems reasonable to me too. I’m glad you’ve sorted matters out to your satisfaction, Harry.”

“As am I,” he said politely. “And I’d prefer you don’t accuse the Headmaster of theft or anything like that – I’m happy to let bygones be bygones and wouldn’t want to cause any trouble for him; no need to bother him about it further. I’m sure Gringotts will keep him updated as required.” There, courtesy with an implicit threat, and a request for silence. Pansy would be proud. He had no idea how much the goblins updated people on account changes – he was kind of hoping Dumbledore had heard nothing. It probably depended on how well you negotiated or how much you paid them.

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m sure he’d appreciate your forbearance – these misunderstandings can be blown out of proportion at times, can’t they?” she said with a worried frown. “I could arrange a meeting with him for you if you did want to discuss matters peaceably?”

“No thank you, Professor. I’d rather just keep it quiet and let the matter drop.”

“Very well then.”

Professor McGonagall spent a little time after that explaining the Hogwarts fee system. There was a two tier system of fees, with the much lower fee rate available upon application on grounds such as financial hardship, and was almost always granted to larger families with three or more children anticipated to attend Hogwarts within a consecutive twenty year period.

“That’s quite a large time span, isn’t it?”

“Not really. Not for wizards and witches – remember our lifespans are typically longer than those of Muggles, Mr. Potter.” He had read of witches and wizards with startlingly long ages – it was an odd thought that made him wonder about the nature of magic and how it affected the body, and whether magic users were really a different race or not.

She passed across some paperwork to him, marking him down for the higher fee rate. He would have to double check his Gringotts statement, but he thought it was still lower than what he’d paid last year.

“Are there any other fees or payments that Hogwarts might claim from my account, Professor?”

“None that are mandatory. You certainly have the option to donate additional funds on a yearly basis, to be used for the improvement of the school as overseen by the Hogwarts Board of Directors and the Headmaster. Many families choose to make an extra donation, but not all; it is entirely at your discretion, as you’ll see near the bottom of the form.”

Harry filled it out, for the higher rate of fees, but without any additional donations. Perhaps his parents had authorised them, or perhaps Dumbledore’s sticky fingers were to blame. In either case with the technically authorised but morally intolerable access to his account (not to mention “gifting” him with his own father’s cloak) he was in no mood to grant Hogwarts an extra share of his money.

He thought he caught a look of disappointment on Professor McGonagall’s face as she took and read over the form, but she didn’t say anything. Which was probably for the best because it was so tempting to yell at her. But he knew from many painful experiences in the past that it was better to stay quiet. He could use someone in authority to help counter any more curve balls Dumbledore might throw his way. Best to have as many people on his side as possible, rather than needlessly make an enemy.

***

On September 19th, Harry conspired with Neville and Ron to surprise Hermione when she emerged from her dorm at last, wearing a casual wizarding robe for the weekend, and with a book open to read while she walked.

“Surprise!” they all yelled, and she jumped and flailed to catch her book, as she almost dropped it from the shock.

“What?!”

“Happy birthday, Hermione!” they said in a mismatched chorus. Her toothy grin widened as she spotted a little pile of presents next to the pie set up on a side table with a little white candle stuck in the middle of it. Harry had smuggled a whole pie off the dining table the night before, to save for the celebration, and cast a Shrinking Charm on a regular candle so it didn’t look too enormous. He really hoped the spell wouldn’t wear off too early.

Harry started singing “Happy Birthday To You” to her, but the others didn’t join in. A few other Gryffindors hanging around the common room did though, and everyone joined in clapping for her.

“Sorry, I don’t know the song,” apologised Neville. “But I do wish you a happy thirteenth birthday!”

“Thanks Neville,” she beamed, giving him a hug that he awkwardly returned.

Hermione opened her gifts, including the book on calligraphy with a quill from Harry, and they all munched on the cold apple pie.

“So no ‘Happy Birthday’ song at pure-blood parties, then?” she asked curiously.

Harry shrugged. “All I know is they like presents.”

“We don’t sing,” said Ron, “but there’s always presents. And usually a cake.”

“My Gran says honey cake is the only cake you should have on your birthday,” said Neville. “It’s traditional. Apple and fruit desserts are good too; apple pie was the closest we could manage at school, sorry. And you are especially lucky on your birthday because the stars are the same as when you were born.”

“If you don’t make a wish on the candles because you blow them out badly, you have to wish on the first star you see at night or you’ll have a year of bad luck,” said Ron. “Did you make a wish?”

“I thought you didn’t do pure-blood traditions much, Ron?” asked Hermione.

“That’s not tradition… that’s just… birthday wishes,” Ron said vaguely.

“It’s because your natal stars are influencing your magic,” said Neville. “Wishes are more powerful on your birthday; your magic acts up for weal or woe.” Hermione looked fascinated.

“Maybe _some_ pure-blood traditions are interesting?” Harry said with a teasing look.

“Maybe a few,” conceded Hermione with a smile. “I do read up on wizarding culture now, you know. Here and there.”

She nattered happily about equal representation of witches in government for centuries, the respectful attitude many had to environmental preservation of habitats for wildlife, and the apparent dislike of modern technology as stemming from problems with iron interfering with magical spells.

“Really?” said Harry. “I’ve read about not using iron or steel for potions equipment, but the book never explained why.”

“Probably common knowledge that they think everyone should know. I only stumbled across it in passing in a Muggle Studies textbook. I’m thinking of taking it next year.”

“I knew about not using iron in the garden,” volunteered Neville quietly. “I don’t know about magic in general, but everyone knows it’s very bad for magical plants.”

“Mum makes Dad keep all his Muggle stuff out in the shed away from the house,” said Ron with a shrug. “But it’s not like they ever talked about why. It’s just what they do. And why in Merlin’s name would _you_ take Muggle Studies, Hermione? You live with Muggles!”

“I thought it might be interesting to see things from the wizarding perspective. There’s plenty of time to research and think it over still.”

***

October’s damp chill saw a lot of students suffering colds, and after witnessing Ginny Weasley’s spectacularly swift recovery following Percy worriedly nagging her into taking a Pepperup Potion (with steam coming from her ears – how did that even work?!), Harry stopped by the Infirmary to chat with Madam Pomfrey. He was very curious about how the potion worked, and the book Neville had given him last Christmas on medical potions didn’t usually go into a lot of detail about exactly _how_ they worked, though it had an interesting list of biographical and historical notes on the creators of various potions, and a few recipes. And _Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions_ didn’t deal with such mundane diseases as colds and flus.

She didn’t seem especially knowledgeable about how the potion worked, though. And her understanding of medicine and basic biology was, frankly, appalling.

“Colds are a result of dyscrasia, an imbalance of the humours. Usually there is an overabundance of the Phlegmatic humour, associated with the element of Water. The Pepperup Potion heats the blood and the body’s air, stimulating and restoring the levels of Sanguine humour in the body, associated with the element of the cleansing Air, to restore the spirits and bring energy to the patient.” Madam Pomfrey smiled. It was a rare treat to have a student interested in exactly _how_ her treatments worked, and when it was, it was usually a senior Ravenclaw with thought of apprenticing in medicine on their mind.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “What? I don’t understand…”

“Don’t feel embarrassed, Mr. Potter. It’s advanced medical theory, it’s usually a bit much for anyone not apprenticing as a mediwitch or Healer.”

“No, I mean, what about germs? I wanted to know how the potion affected the immune system in terms of future susceptibility to viruses, and how you could have steam coming out of your ears without injury! Why are you talking about ‘humours’?”

“Germs? Is that a Muggle word?”

“Germs are... like tiny little creatures too small to see! They cause disease!”

Madam Pomfrey smiled condescendingly. “Ah, I see. Well I understand Muggle medicine isn’t quite as advanced as wizarding medicine, Mr. Potter. There are no invisible creatures or spirits that cause disease, and it’s not a punishment from the gods, either. You’ll find the science of medicine is a very detailed field of study, founded by the great wizard Hippocrates, and his work has been built upon greatly over the centuries, by such illustrious men as Galen and Paracelsus. The closest thing in nature to an invisible creature that causes illness is the Pogrebin, which is responsible for a great number of cases of sudden depression. I should warn you that the Wrackspurt theory of invisible creatures causing confusion and mental problems is widely thought invalid. Illnesses are in fact usually the result of an imbalance of the humours, a curse, or a spell gone wrong. Potions overdoses and creature attacks can also be problematic, which is why it takes a great deal of training to become a mediwitch like myself, and even more to become a Healer.”

“I… I’d read in passing about the theory of the four humours in some notes about the creation of medical potions, of course. But I didn’t realise that philosophy was still supported over a hundred years later,” Harry said, bewildered. “I thought the books were just old.”

“Well, when something works, there’s no need to change it, Mr. Potter! The science of medicine is a sound one, and of course it has developed over the years. Why, blood-letting is very out of fashion now, for instance. We have much more modern ways of coping with an overabundance of the Sanguine humour, now.”

“Well. I can see I have a lot to learn,” he said politely, squashing his emotions down lest he offend her. There was clearly no point in contradicting her, as she wouldn’t regard him as an authority on the matter. “I wonder if you can tell me how it is that steam can come out of someone’s ears with no ill effects?”

“Magic, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You must understand that wizards and witches can cope better with injuries that would kill or cripple a Muggle, Mr. Potter. And that potions that help restore us to good health or bestow special changes on us could act as poisons to Muggles, though some Squibs can tolerate them in small dosages. Our magic means we interacts with the world in different ways to them.”

“So if I gave my Muggle cousin a Pepperup potion to fight a cold?”

“The intense overstimulation of the Sanguine humour, in the absence of the tempering and guiding effect of magic, could cause severe internal or external burns, or even kill him or her. Giving potions to Muggles or Squibs is not something the untrained should experiment with.”

Harry’s mind reeled. “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about.”

He chatted with her for a little while about other things that led people to come to her for treatment, leading up to a particular topic. He had an additional goal in mind – finding out more about Snape.

“I’ve noticed a lot of potions accidents – is that something you commonly treat?”

“Oh yes, particularly at the start of the year. First years are more prone to accidents, but they soon get the hang of things.”

“Do people ever die from potions accidents? Or poisonings?”

“Extremely rarely, Mr. Potter. You may not enjoy Professor Snape’s level of strictness, but it has certainly resulted in a lower rate of accidents than were the case under his predecessors.”

“So no-one’s died in his class? From an accident?”

“No, Mr. Potter. Some serious injuries certainly, but nothing that couldn’t be cured.”

“What is the usual cause of deaths, here?”

“I cannot say – there haven’t been any student deaths here in the past decade under my watch, I’m proud to say. Quidditch has its attendant dangers, of course. I would say the most recent student fatalities were the result of duels and other attacks during the war, Mr. Potter, which ended thanks to you.”

Harry did a polite bow of acknowledgement of praise. Madam Pomfrey looked a little startled, then smiled and bobbed a small curtsey. She laughed, then. “I haven’t curtseyed to a student in years, Mr. Potter! Don’t go expecting it again, mind you. But we do indeed owe you and your parents a great debt.”

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. And the students are in your debt for your prodigiously good care of them.” She looked pleased.

“Well, I must get back to work now. I recommended you read up on the Hippocratic theory of the Four Humours, if you are interested in making a start in learning more about modern medicine.”

“Thank you kindly for the thought, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry smiled brightly. _Unbelievable_.

***

Harry didn’t like practicing his more advanced spells out where anyone could see him. He’d learnt well over the years that life was easier if people underestimated you, and that no-one liked to see him doing well. Though Professor Flitwick was rapidly becoming an exception to that rule. He didn’t seem to be especially singling out Harry though, which was reassuring. He encouraged _any_ student whom he judged talented or hard working, though it came at the cost of politely neglecting those without ability or drive. If Professor Flitwick passed by your bench with a cursory “very well done” about your flickering Light Charm instead of lingering to say “try and produce a more _focused_ beam this time”, you knew you were doing badly. Only the unobservant were satisfied with his hollow praise – a few (including Harry, but not yet Hermione) had learned to work for his criticisms. He was finding it an increasingly inspiring and fun class.

So Harry’s locale of choice for solo spellcasting practice was one of the empty classrooms on the fourth floor, which was quite a deserted level with few visitors. It looked like this once might have been some kind of home economics classroom once upon a time – there were several miniature kitchens with sinks and benches, and miniature fireplaces where you could hang a cauldron. Today Harry was working on the Mending Charm from _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three_ , which seemed incredibly useful – he’d repaired a lot tiny holes and small rips in his Muggle clothes. He was also alternating between casting the Freezing Spell from that book, and the Fire Charm from the Grade Two book.

First Harry filled a sink with water and emptied it laboriously into a big puddle on the stone floor, then cast _Glacius_ to freeze it into blocks of ice, then his best focused or diffused _Incendio_ to make it melt, or shatter in a spray of ice shards or steam (he was experimenting). Flying shards of ice also gave him something motivating to cast his flickering Shield Charm to protect himself from. Any damage he caused to the classroom he did his best to fix with the Mending Charm.

He would like to practice some Defence spells, but those mentioned in Lockhart’s books were either light on practical spellcasting details, or regarded as suitable for only the most skilled wizards and witches.

He was having a grand time alternating his freezing and flaming blasts, feeling very much like an unstoppable wizard from a fantasy movie, when of course someone decided he was having too much fun and it must be stopped.

Argus Filch, the caretaker, opened the door and burst into the room. “Ah ha! I knew it!” he croaked. A thick tartan scarf was wrapped around his neck, and his nose looked unusually purple – he obviously was suffering from a bad cold, and in a correspondingly bad mood. “Mrs. Norris and I thought we heard a troublemaker round these parts! You’re caught now, boy!”

He looked around at the mess – water everywhere, and a few scorch marks and a broken chair – Harry hadn’t reached the cleaning up point in his cyclic routine.

“I can fix this, sir,” he explained with a polite smile. “I’ve been practising some charms, you see…”

“I don’t want to hear it!” shouted Filch, then sneezed. “Filth! Mess everywhere!” he pointed angrily at the puddles, his jowls aquiver and his eyes bulging alarmingly. “You’ll come with me!”

Harry grabbed his bag and followed him meekly down the corridor with a sigh. Until he became very alarmed upon hearing the man’s mutters about stringing him up by his feet from manacles, and making an example of him.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said, stopping dead in his tracks.

“What was that?!”

“I said no, you won’t be hanging me up from my ankles, or whipping me, or any of the other tortures you’ve been muttering about!” replied Harry, his voice rising anxiously.

“You’ll do as you’re told! You were using magic outside classes! It’s prohibited! As is befouling the castle and damaging property! I’m within my rights!”

“Technically, it’s only prohibited in the _corridors_ , and I was within a classroom. So no, I won’t go meekly with you, so what are you going to do about it?” said Harry drawing his wand and taking a step away from the man. “Draw your wand and make me, if you think you can. If you don’t fear being reported for your behaviour. And if you even _have_ a wand, which I doubt.”

Filch blanched. “I have a wand, of course I have a wand, why would you think I don’t?”

“You’re a Squib. And you know, if you weren’t, you would’ve been cured of your cold by now.”

“Very well… go… and don’t breathe a word… not that... for I have a wand of course... and magic within a classroom of course that’s different, you just must clean up afterwards…” the panicked man stuttered. “No need to mention this to anyone, Mr. Potter?”

“Of course not, sir,” said Harry smoothly, willing to be polite now he wasn’t in immediate danger of torture. “No need for either of us to mention anything to anyone, right?”

“Yes, right. On your way then.”

Harry put his wand away in his robe pocket only after Filch was out of sight. He’d need to find a new classroom for his practice sessions. Threats of torture – it wasn’t as bad as last year’s multiple brushes with death, but it wasn’t giving Hogwarts a 5 star rating in his mind. Well, the year was young, and there was plenty of time yet for teachers and beasts to try and kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks again to all my reviewers, including to “Guest” – thanks for your review, I appreciated it! :) I’d like to clarify Harry’s level of “smartness” for you. You wrote: “Though your smart Harry who tries to be average, seems more average Harry just trying to be average. No offence but he does not seem smart, someone who has talent for magic and is prodigious at it or something.”
> 
> Tags such as the Smart!Harry tag describe a notable difference from canon – this Harry is smarter than usually portrayed in canon (though who knows what he could have accomplished if he’d tried more), he’s more interested in academics and studying, able to achieve top marks in most/all subjects if he wanted to, and somewhat more magically proficient. You’ll notice him doing spells at or above his school level with ease, if you keep an eye out – though I must admit I’m not always flagging obviously for people that he’s casting a year (or more) above his year level, or with unusual proficiency (that detail is in the background research as I’m writing).
> 
> For example, in Chapter 5 Harry cast the Freezing Charm (Immobulus) without any problems at all, despite it being a second year spell (from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2), and having not being taught it yet (as they’re only in the first week of classes). He also waited until he’d seen Hermione use it before casting it himself, and didn’t cast any of the “dozen” other spells he said he’d thought of that could work on pixies. He hates standing out; it’s never brought him anything but pain and suffering. “The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.” Being as good at DADA at Hermione (O level) is quite enough – being noticeably better might be dangerous. In canon, Harry tried to grab the pixies with his hands, obviously not knowing the spell Hermione had used (or indeed any other useful spell), and Neville fell off the candelabra without anyone helping him down.
> 
> My Harry is smart, cunning, and a budding manipulator (the Dursleys didn’t require a lot of subtlety) but he’s not a genius, nor an unbelievably accomplished magical prodigy who can challenge Dumbledore to a duel at 12 years old. He’s just smart, and very, very determined with his studies, as opposed to succumbing to Ron’s lazy example like in canon. He is still a child, however, and will still have his moments of social and emotional stupidity and gullibility, will get other things wrong here and there, and won’t be an expert at something unless he works at it. He’s no Genius!Harry or Super!Harry – those can be fun fics at times, and I know Smart!Harry is a tag sometimes used for those style of fics too, but this is a more realistic take on the trope.
> 
> And I’m sorry everyone, but please don’t hold your breath waiting for pairings – there won’t be anything except unrequited crushes, or at most, a bit of hand holding and shy looks. I’m writing for adults and teens primarily, but also I’m always keeping my young daughter and other assorted pre-teen readers in mind (I know there’s at least a couple following this series). So this fic series is going to stay so clean it squeaks, except for a level of violence/scary themes roughly matching canon. My other works may have pairings/romantic content, but not this series.
> 
> “Love the story where the believers on both sides are not wrong but just diff beliefs and cultural thing. Kudos for that.”
> 
> Thank you! That’s exactly the feel I was (and am) aiming for. :)
> 
> One last thing, patient readers! I have started a Community on fanfiction dot net, called “Harry Potter for Kids”. https://www.fanfiction.net/community/Harry-Potter-for-Kids/123856/ Description: “This is a place to find Harry Potter fics suitable for pre-teen children to read. It may also suit adults & teens looking for engaging fics to read that have a de-emphasis on romance, horror, and violence.
> 
> Fics for this community must have no romance except as non-explicit background detail, minimal to no swearing, no adult themes (e.g. drug use), and low levels of violence/horror themes (not exceeding the level found in the canonical HP books). They also must be well written and engaging. Recs welcome.”
> 
> If you would like to recommend a fic hosted on fanfiction dot net for inclusion (including your own, if applicable), please PM me or comment with title and author in a review. Fics will only be added slowly as I have a chance to read through them. Please do not be offended though if I don’t include a fic you suggest; I’m going to be extra picky as this is a community I’m making up so I can hand-select fics for my daughter to read that I feel may interest and suit her. I thought others might appreciate it too though, so feel free to subscribe if you’re interested.


	8. More Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Research into house-elves begins, and everyone gets ready to celebrate Halloween, or Samhain.

**_31 st October, 1992_ **

Hermione’s research into house-elves was going well, aided by Harry, Neville, and even Ron. (It was rather scuppering some of his other research projects though – he didn’t have a lot of free time.) While _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ had nothing, they found a little information in _A Children’s Anthology of Monsters_ by the same author (Newt Scamander), within the old fairy-tale about the house-elves who made shoes for a Muggle couple until they left after given clothes – which was still the simplest way to set a house-elf free. Harry and Ron talked to Percy (who knew a lot about the Ministry and laws), who said that the “Office for House-Elf Relocation” was part of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. However, it was one of the quieter offices, as usually when a house-elf’s master died, inheritance of the house-elves went automatically to the property’s heir. House-elves were bonded to a house, rather than an individual person. The office mostly acted as a broker for sales and purchases of elves between interested individuals. Neville found in the library a very long book called _House-elves & Self-Hatred_, which Hermione laid claim to and was eagerly devouring like a hungry bookworm.

Harry also chatted with Pansy and the other Slytherin girls about house-elves. Daphne remained adamant that house-elves set free would die – they needed to live in an area of strong magic or they would die.

“Bonding them to a property gives them the best access to the magic they need to live,” Daphne explained.

Pansy insisted that they _loved_ to serve their family, and Millicent agreed with her. “If you want to rebuke or punish a house-elf without injuring it, you threaten to set it free,” Pansy said. “But only the Head of the household for the property can do that.”

“But what if a house-elf is unhappy where he is? Dobby, my house-elf stalker, didn’t seem to like his family, or the punishments they mete out. You can’t just assume they’re _all_ happy just because yours is. And they might _pretend_ to be happy to avoid trouble, if they’re scared of being punished.”

“Well, I suppose the Ministry might step in if one was abused and it was reported, as you’re required to look after them,” Daphne said hesitantly, “but I don’t think that kind of thing happens very often.”

“They’re not allowed wands, by the way,” said Tracey. “They’re one of several races of Beings who are prohibited them, like goblins and centaurs. They’re Servi class Beings, rather than Peregrini class.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, Servi basically means slaves-”

“Hmph,” Pansy interjected crossly. “More like _servants_.”

“So they can be bought or sold-”

“It’s _compensation_ for the loss of their labour!”

“…but you can’t harm them as they belong to a particular household, who have to care for them. Oh, and they’re allowed to hold money and buy things at the shops. Peregrini class citizens are those like goblins – they’re free citizens, but can’t vote or hold positions in the Ministry, like being Aurors. They have to pay taxes, can be executed summarily of serious crimes, they can’t _legally_ intermarry with wizards or witches, and their children can’t inherit property or goods. And neither class can wield a wand.”

“How do you know all that?” Harry asked curiously.

“I asked around and did some reading – it started because I was curious about Professor Flitwick, after Professor Binns talked in class about how goblins aren’t allowed wands. While Professor Flitwick wouldn’t have inherited anything from his wizard or witch parent, as a half-breed he can claim the higher of the two statuses of his parents, providing he’s magically skilled. Which obviously he is,” Tracey concluded. “He must have a wizard or witch parent.”

“Why didn’t you just ask him about it?”

“That would’ve been very rude!” Tracey said. Unlike researching him behind his back, obviously, which Harry assumed she thought was perfectly polite.

Creevey stopped by their table to take a photograph of Harry sitting with his Slytherin friends, which led to Pansy telling him off for doing so without asking. She got so loud that Madam Pince eventually asked them to leave the library. Harry apologised to the others, and explained what a pain the boy had been lately. He promised he was working on fixing things with him.

Harry relayed all the information about house-elves (and goblins) to Hermione later, who was fascinated and appreciative of his information gathering, though appalled at Pansy’s defence of slavery, and the others’ tolerance of it. Harry was worried by it too, but was more convinced of the claims that freeing elves would kill them – some magical plants would wither and die in non-magical areas, so it sounded plausible to him that house-elves might similarly waste away without access to magic. His focus was on finding out how mistreated house-elves could be helped.

Hermione was suspicious that it was all propaganda designed to oppress house-elves and stop their emancipation. She was sure that “where there’s a will, there’s a way”. But she wasn’t going to leap into matters precipitously; if freeing them really would kill them she didn’t want to risk that.

***

As the end of October approached, Harry started making plans for Halloween, or Samhain as he was increasingly automatically thinking of it. The Slytherins celebrated it with a multi-year private celebration in their House common room after the feast in the Great Hall, so he wasn’t invited to attend. Pansy apologised, but the other Houses weren’t allowed in their dorm – even the precise location of their Den in the dungeons was kept secret as much as possible.

So Harry had a quiet word with Ernie Macmillan from Hufflepuff and Stephen Cornfoot from Ravenclaw – Harry had picked out an abandoned classroom with a fireplace for the non-Slytherin second years to gather to celebrate Samhain, if they were interested. They sounded very keen on the idea, and promised to spread the word. But Ernie insisted that it only go for an hour at most starting from the end of the feast, as he didn’t want to get in trouble for breaking curfew, so that limited the time. Interestingly, Lily Moon from Hufflepuff found him in the library to talk to him about it with a specific request.

“Eloise Midgen from Gryffindor is interested in coming along too - is that alright?”

“Sure! I didn’t know to invite her.”

“That’s okay, it’s always hard to know who to ask. We’ve made friends in Herbology, and Eloise’s family is quite traditional. She won’t be a bother, I promise.”

It made Harry wonder who else might be interested in joining them, and how to find out subtly.

He chatted with his friends about how he was planning to skip the Halloween feast, as he didn’t like celebrating on the anniversary of his parents’ death, which they all understood. However, Ron initially thought he should just enjoy the marvellous food at the feast “all sombre-like”, and needed a bit more explanation to be convinced that Harry wouldn’t be coming.

Neville volunteered to keep him company, and after a little persuading Harry accepted (he didn’t want to be a bother). Hermione said she and Ron would fetch them each a serve of the tidier foods wrapped in a napkin to eat later - an offer which was much appreciated. Harry always had some food cached in his trunk for emergencies, but it’d be a shame to miss the whole feast.

Harry and Neville passed a quietly reflective Samhain eve chatting in the Gryffindor common room. Harry shared some more of the things he’d been learning about the Old Ways with Neville, and asked what he thought about it all.

“Well, my Gran does a lot of the etiquette, I’m sure you have noticed that. It might not be as showy as the ritual celebrations, but it’s all a part of our culture too. Like the importance of a Head of a family, respecting Ancient and Noble houses, being courteous to elders and ladies, how to hold your knife and fork, and how to never use cold iron tools when gardening - all of that stuff.

“She’s not big on the more mystical aspects of the Old Ways, though. It’s fallen out of fashion after the last two wars – both Grindelwald and You-Know-Who favoured the mystical elements of our traditions. They took the darkest things and made them worse. Like Grindelwald’s human sacrifices in Europe to feed magic – millions of Muggles killed for power. And Voldemort liked to plan his main attacks for Days of Power, so lots of people started to hate those dates because of him.”

Harry shuddered. “Why do wizards go dark like that, Nev? How can someone do that?”

Neville shrugged. “I don’t know, Harry. I guess they just get greedy for power. You can’t understand someone like that.”

“What I’m doing isn’t bad, I think.”

“I don’t think so either. There’s nothing you’ve told me I think you should worry about. I think the Old traditions are alright in themselves, it’s just that some people have gone a bit crazy with it.”

“Thanks, Nev.”

“Not a problem, Harry.” Neville paused. “You know, I need a nickname for you too.”

“Apparently my real name is Harold. So you’re already using a nickname.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“Neither did I, until I learnt it at Gringotts. It’s listed on bank records for my trust vault.”

“Weird.”

“Tell me about it.”

Harry also chatted with Neville about his investigations into student deaths with Madam Pomfrey, and tried to reassure him that he didn’t think Snape actually poisoned people – it might just be a rumour.

“Just because your uncle said so, doesn’t make it true,” he argued. “Uncle Vernon told me… well he told me all kinds of things. Like that my parents died in a car crash.” He then had to digress to explain what cars were. “Look, my point is that adults lie.”

“Maybe, Harry,” said Neville doubtfully. “But people _have_ killed Squibs in the past. It’s a fact. They used to swap them with babies in the Muggle world, but after a while they just started killing them. And I think Snape would be really good at covering his tracks, if he wanted.”

“They swapped babies?!”

“You didn’t know? I guess I’ve read up a bit on Squibs. You know, just in case. Centuries ago there was a tradition of testing babies for magic – don’t ask me how because the spell for it is banned by the Ministry so no-one knows what it is now. The Hogwarts quill is enchanted with it, but I think all the other artifacts that can replicate that effect were destroyed. So, if a family found they had a Squib baby, they’d find a Muggle-born child and swap them. They were called Changelings.”

“So that’s where the stories came from…,” said Harry, fascinated.

“I think it’s kinder than killing them,” said Neville.

“Definitely. But, kind of hard on the Muggle family, don’t you think?”

“Pure-bloods didn’t think like that, back then. Some still wouldn’t care, but blood is more important right now than it sometimes has been. So no-one wants to adopt Muggle-borns anymore.”

“Kidnap, not adopt.”

“Bit of both, really.”

“Is your family… okay with you being a wizard,” Neville asked cautiously. “I know you said… well-” he trailed off uncertainly in the middle of his sentence.

“… No, not really,” Harry admitted. “They were pretty angry about it. And Aunt Petunia’s had some legitimately bad experiences of the wizarding world. I guess I don’t really blame them for not liking it. Though given they _did_ actually know about magic, it would’ve been nice if they’d explained about it earlier, and not punished me for accidental magic when I was younger.”

“Do they hurt… is there a reason you’re so interested in medicine?” Neville asked cautiously. “My Gran’s not so bad, she mostly just yells. But my Uncle Algie thinks boys need discipline. I try not to get him mad.”

“It’s not… No, it’s not that bad. No, nothing really serious for years now – we get on alright. They don’t… Dudley gets better treatment, but then he’s their son, not an unwanted nephew. My arm got broken once, that was the worst of it. No, I just want to be a doctor. Or a Healer. I’m thinking lately both would be good.

“They used to say my parents died in a car crash, and I used to wish someone had helped my mum and dad in time,” Harry admitted quietly. “And later, it was just… a good goal, you know? Something to dream about. Helping people – saving their lives. Helping hurt kids too. And it’s a profession that is really prestigious in the Muggle world. And makes really good money! I could afford to buy my own house, stuff like that. It sure would rub the Dursleys’ noses in all their insistence I’m not as smart as Dudley, and Aunt Marge talking about how I’m going to end up a criminal or on welfare.

“And the magic? They’re getting used to it,” Harry continued. “They even want me to do _well_ in school this year, so I don’t have as much accidental magic happening at home.”

“Ahhh,” said Neville thoughtfully, like he understood something. “I won’t tell anyone, Harry.” He changed the topic to something more innocuous after that (to Harry’s relief), and they chatted about his recent ambition to be a Master Herbologist when he was older, which was no surprise to Harry.

Later that evening they headed down the long staircase out of Gryffindor Tower (their dorm was on the seventh floor – so it was a long walk up but not too bad going down), and down towards the Great Hall, where they would meet up with Ron and Hermione before Harry went off to join some of the other traditionalists for a Samhain celebration. He invited Neville, but he said he’d like to think about it some more, and might come another time.

And then, on the second floor, Harry heard the voice again. The same whisper he’d heard in Lockhart’s office.

“… _ssso hungry… for ssso long_ …”

Harry stumbled to a halt. “Do you hear that? The voice?”

“What voice?”

“Listen!” said Harry urgently, and Neville froze, watching him.

“… _kill… must kill_ …”

“It’s talking about being hungry, and killing something,” he whispered in explanation to Neville. “You don’t hear it? It’s soft, but getting louder, like it’s moving - coming closer.”

“Which way is it going?” asked Neville quietly.

“That way,” Harry pointed.

“We should follow it!” said Neville excitedly.

“What?!”

“Well, it’s probably just the Baron, and wouldn’t you like to know for sure?”

“Not really, actually!”

“Well, if it _is_ something dangerous, you can fight it, Harry. I’ll help!”

“You are _such_ a Gryffindor sometimes, Neville.”

Neville grinned at him, and drawing his wand from his robe pocket, headed down the corridor in the direction Harry had pointed. Harry drew his wand too, and jogged to catch up.

“You’re crazy. You know that, right?”

“Gran would be so disappointed if I ran away from danger,” he said. “My father wouldn’t have run. I want to live up to that.”

“Shhh!”

“ _I ssmell blood… I SSSMELL BLOOD_!”

“That way!” The boys sprinted around a corner into the last, deserted passage.

“ _Lumos!_ ” Harry cast, nervous about the dark corridor ahead, where he saw something glinting on the wall ahead.

The foot high words on the wall were illuminated brightly where they were daubed in dripping red on the stone wall between two windows.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED.

ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

Mrs. Norris, Filch’s cat, swung from her tail from a torch bracket next to the message, stiff as a board.

“No ghost. But that sure is creepy,” said Neville. “Poor cat.”

Harry didn’t respond – he was looking around worriedly for danger, and listening for the voice, but he didn’t see or hear anything. “Time to go.”

“Shouldn’t we try and help-” Neville began awkwardly.

“No, trust me,” said Harry firmly. “We don’t want to be found here.”

But it was too late. The rumble of thundering footsteps signalled that the Feast had just ended, and students spilled into the corridor from either end – they were trapped. The chatter and bustle stopped as the students saw the grisly tableau, then someone shouted through the quiet.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!”

It was Draco Malfoy, who’d pushed his way to the front of the crowd, avoiding a puddle of water on the flagstones. His cold, blue eyes looked alive with delight as he stared at Harry, Neville, and the hanging, immobile cat.

Not long after, Filch then shouldered his way through the murmuring crowd, and seeing his cat, with Harry and Neville nearby trying to inch their way into the crowd, turned on Harry with screeching accusations.

“You!” he screeched, “ _You_! You’ve murdered my cat! I knew you were up to no good, hiding away! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you!”

“I didn’t!”

“You-”

“ _Argus!_ ” Dumbledore arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. He collected the cat, and called Filch, Harry, Neville and Ron (who’d pushed through the crowd to join them) to join him. Lockhart eagerly volunteered his office as a suitable venue for private questioning, and he, McGonagall and Snape all joined them.

In Lockhart’s office, surrounded by bashful portraits of the man himself attempting to hide the curlers in their hair, Filch sobbed as Lockhart expounded upon curses and attacks that were very similar to this case. Dumbledore examined the cat closely, casting a few spells, and eventually pronounced that she was not dead, but merely petrified, though he could not say how.

“Ask him how!” accused Filch with a shriek, turning his blotchy, tear-stained face to Harry.

“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark magic of the most advanced-”

“He did it! He did it!” Filch spat, his face screwed up in disgust and fear. “He’s sneaky – he’s been practicing advanced magic when no-one sees, but I caught him, I did! And you saw what he wrote on the wall! He knows, he knows I’m a- I’m a Squib!” he finished quietly, face screwed up miserably. “And when I found him he threatened me! Drew his wand on me, he did!” he added, more loudly.

Ron murmured excitedly to Neville at this, though what they were saying, Harry couldn’t hear.

“He threatened to torture me. He said he was going to chain me up by my ankles, and was muttering about whipping me to set an example,” said Harry, matter-of-factly. “I took objection to his plan, and it’s true I had my wand out, but I didn’t threaten him. I just refused to go with him.”

“That’s just letting off steam, Potter. Surely you’re not suggesting you found that a credible threat,” sneered Snape.

“It seemed quite likely to me, sir.”

“But Harry,” said Dumbledore, sounding concerned. “Surely you know you’re safe here at Hogwarts.”

“Last year you yourself threatened a painful death to anyone entering the Third Floor corridor, sir.”

“As a warning to stay out of a dangerous area! Not as a threat!” said Dumbledore, sounding appalled. “No-one here would truly harm you, my boy.”

“Not counting the attempted murder during my Quidditch match, sir, for which the guilty party escaped all questioning or punishment?” Harry rebutted, glancing at Snape. “Or the troll? Or my duel with Professor Quirrell in the mirror room?”

“I assure you the Aurors are doing everything they can to find Mr. Quirrell.” Dumbledore looked woeful, and gave an appealing glance to Professor McGonagall.

“Harry,” she said gently, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “we initially had no idea who attacked you at the Quidditch match, Professor Snape, however, worked quickly to cast the counter-spell. Only later did we realise the depths of Quirrell’s perfidy, and we can assure you the Aurors are searching for him still. His crimes against you have not been forgotten.”

“What’s that got to do with anything!” complained Filch, attempted murder weighing as much less important to him than his cat’s petrification. “What I want to know is how you’re going to punish him for petrifying my poor Mrs. Norris!”

“Well, it must be said that he and young Mr. Longbottom were loitering with suspicious intent,” Snape said smoothly from the shadows. “Why were you not at the Halloween feast?”

“While for some it is a joyous occasion,” said Harry stiffly, “for me it is a melancholy one, as it is the day my mother and father were murdered. I see no occasion to celebrate it. Neville as my friend chose to keep me company. Ron wasn’t with us at all – he was at the feast in the Great Hall with the others.”

Snape’s face looked rather blank. Harry hoped he was suffering a guilty conscience for his deeds as a Death Eater – it would serve him right. More likely he was mourning the day his Lord was killed, though.

“You attended last year, however,” observed McGonagall.

“Yes, but I didn’t really enjoy it. Even _before_ the troll tried to kill one of my friends.”

“What about my cat!”

“I didn’t do _anything_ to your cat! We just were walking along and found her like that!”

“There is no evidence the boy has done anything wrong,” McGonagall said firmly.

Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling light blue gaze made Harry feel as though he was being X-rayed, and reminded him a bit of Snape’s piercing looks.

“Innocent until proven guilty, Argus,” he said sternly.

“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked. “I want to see some punishment!”

Dumbledore spoke soothingly to him about restoring his cat once the Mandrakes were ready, and Lockhart stepped in with his idea of help.

“I think a detention is in order, Mr. Potter,” he said, with a sly covert wink to him before turning to face the other teachers. “A few hours with me on Saturday writing lines, as a punishment for being out of bounds. Mr. Longbottom as well, I suppose. We can’t have students gadding about without permission when they should be at a feast. Why, just think of the tragedy that almost happened last year! And who knows what may have transpired had they stumbled across today’s culprit!”

Harry assumed an appropriately hangdog expression, and when McGonagall tried to intervene on his behalf, he demurred, saying that Professor Lockhart was right, and they really should have told someone where they were. He didn’t know what Lockhart had in mind, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be writing lines.

Professor McGonagall escorted them to their dorm, with instructions to stay put (which put a swift end to Harry’s plans to join his Traditionalist friends for Samhain). The students wanted to hear all about their adventure, and Ron was eager to oblige them, even though his involvement was peripheral at most. Neville seemed to enjoy the attention too, though was quietly following Harry’s unspoken lead in not talking about the voice he’d heard.

Harry didn’t join in, but couldn’t even if he wanted to. He found himself fully occupied tending to Hermione, who was sobbing and seemed very upset by the whole business.

“They were saying something was dead – some people at the back said someone was hanged! I thought you were _dead_! I _hate_ Halloween! I _hate_ it!”

Harry patted her awkwardly on the back, and looked around for help, but no-one came to take over and rescue him. “There, there,” he said lamely. “Everything’s alright.”

“It’s not, it’s not! You could have died! I could have died! There’s a creature in the castle _again_!”

“There, there,” he echoed, patting her again. “It’s just a stupid prank.” But as his mind was full of the hissing whispers of a hungry monster smelling blood, his continued murmured reassurances about Hogwarts students’ poor sense of humour didn’t come out sounding very convincing. She did at least draw a little comfort from hearing that the cat was petrified, rather than dead.

***

Hours later Harry was still awake, reading in bed. He wasn’t missing his chance two years in a row. As he slipped out of bed with a thump of his feet on the floor and got dressed in one of the plain black Hogwarts robes, he saw Neville sit up in bed.

“Where are you going?” Neville whispered. “Is it something to do with the voice? I noticed you didn’t tell anyone about it.”

“You didn’t either,” replied Harry.

“Hearing voices isn’t a good thing, even in the wizarding world. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Thanks.”

“So what are you up to, then?”

“It’s almost midnight. There’s a ritual I want to do, for Samhain. It gives you a chance to try and get a message from the departed.” Harry hesitated. “It’s private, but you can come along if you want, if you stay quiet. Or if you’re worried I’m up to something.”

“No, I trust you.”

Harry smiled. “Thanks Nev. I’ll just be in the boy’s bathroom, if you change your mind.”

More experienced and well-read than last year, Harry was prepared for his ritual with a pure beeswax candle, a mirror (the round one from his parents’ house), incense, and a small piece of beef from yesterday’s roast. He said some ritual words calling on magic, visiting spirits, and the Element of Air, offered the meat to the candle-flame and wafted the incense smoke over the mirror. He felt a sense of peace and comfort, but he saw nothing.

He must not have the gift of Second Sight at all. It was both disappointing and gratifying at the same time. He didn’t want to be even more unusual, but he had so hoped he might see his parents. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but had a faint feeling like maybe they were with him, though, and appreciated his offering. It would have to be enough. There were some things even magic couldn’t do for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone who takes the time to leave comments - I really appreciate it. :)


	9. Reputation is Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry serves a very useful detention with Professor Lockhart. The school is all abuzz with discussion of the Chamber of Secrets.

**_November, 1992_ **

For a few days the school was buzzing about the attack on Filch’s cat, and the mysterious message. Harry wanted to ignore it all, but Lockhart advised him to confront angry detractors head on with a smile and a straightforward denial.

“Never argue the evidence, Harry. That just makes it look like you’ve got something to hide. Just go with a quick statement of your innocence and change the topic as fast as you can,” he advised. “Notoriety is not so desirous as true fame, Harry. If you were behind the prank on Filch’s cat – and I’m not saying you were – remember that tales of heroic and helpful actions will advance your fame much better, despite the short term benefit of more mischievous acts.”

It sounded like the voice of experience, which made Harry wonder what false accusations the man had had to deal with in the past. Probably people doubting some of the crazier stories in his books. Harry doubted them too. Which really made them not false accusations at all.

Some students did seem to be acting oddly about the whole thing, despite Harry’s smiling brief reassurances that he merely stumbled across the scene. Hermione had buried herself in books for comfort (or so Harry assumed) – he left her be. She’d emerge from her nest of books when she was ready. Some students seemed to be avoiding him – Justin Finch-Fletchley found another group to work with in Herbology, and on one notable occasion in the corridors when he spotted Harry he spun on his heel and sped quickly away when Harry tried to say hello. Colin Creevey told him some kids in his class were saying he was the one behind the attack on Mrs. Norris, which he told Creevey was ridiculous. Creevey eagerly said he’d spread the word.

Pansy, Millicent, Tracey and Daphne seemed friendlier than ever, greeting him casually in the corridors whenever they saw him. They _seemed_ to accept his assurances that he knew nothing about the attack. However, their knowing glances at nearby students (and portraits on the walls) as he spoke suggested that they might regard his protestations of innocence as being just for form’s sake.

“What did Filch mean about catching you hiding away, Harry?”

“Nothing important,” he said, “he just saw me practising some magic in an old classroom.”

The girls exchanged significant looks.

“Nothing improper! Just charms. You _know_ how he likes to get students in trouble for anything he can.”

“How are your genealogical studies going lately? Found any interesting connections to Ancient families?” hinted Millicent later, a little bluntly in Harry’s opinion.

“What? No. Absolutely not,” Harry said with a smile, and changed the subject, like Professor Lockhart had advised.

***

As he’d guessed, Saturday’s detention for Harry and Neville with Professor Lockhart involved no writing of lines at all, except late in the meeting when a signature was required on a document. After a quick whispered consultation with Harry about whether Neville would cause trouble, it was revealed that they were expecting a Warder to travel through the Floo to deal with Harry’s owl ward problems.

After about a half-hour’s wait during which Professor Lockhart entertained them with tales of his adventures in Europe, a tall man with chestnut-brown hair stepped out of the Floo in a flash of green flames. He wore impeccably tailored dark purple robes, and wore a thick fur-lined cloak over the top.

“Greetings, I am Antonius Dufort, Master Warder,” he said in introduction in lightly accented English, shaking Lockhart’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Lockhart.”

Lockhart bowed to him with a flourish of his half-length garishly pink and gold cape. “And it is an honour to have you here, Master Dufort. Thank you for coming all the way from Belgium to deal with our little problem. May I introduce you to your client today, Mr. Harry Potter, and his friend Mr. Neville Longbottom.” After an exchange of bows, the Warder was keen to get started, and threw out a few questions while he worked.

“Stay still, please. And please describe for me the extent of the problems you have been experiencing with your mail deliveries,” he said, as he waved a wand around Harry which made a series of different coloured sparks in the air. He jotted down some notes on parchment as he went.

Harry described the problems he’d had, such as a few friends’ gifts and teachers’ gifts and mail getting through, but not any letters from his Slytherin friends, and no bank statements.

“And no fan mail!” added Lockhart. “Not a single letter from a business asking for endorsement, or a missive from anyone who is a stranger to him.”

“Well there is definitely a strong owl ward on you, and it has been there for some years,” said Dufort, after his spell-based examinations were done. “It’s a very strong one. I expect that anyone not on the approved list of senders would be unable to contact you, even should they be sitting in the same room as you when they sent their owl. Those sending owls to you would find they leave normally, then when they hit the owl ward at a radius of approximately ten kilometres out from you their messages are completely destroyed, and the confused owl begins its return journey home.”

“What about within that distance?”

“The owl would feel compelled to travel outwards to the ward border, have its message destroyed, then journey inwards again to return to the sender.”

“Cool…,” murmured Harry, “but not very useful. Can you break it?”

“Well yes, I should be able to, with some effort. However, it would be easier to have the caster break or modify it for you. Or as another option _I_ could try and modify it for you – but it would be open still to further modifications to the ward by the original caster, should they become aware of the changes and still have the Permissions scroll.”

“I don’t want to speak to the caster – I don’t think they have my best interests at heart.”

“Then breaking it is your best option – but it may leave you vulnerable to a deluge of mail, including any jinxed mail or Howlers. You are famous even in Belgium, Mr. Potter, and I expect you may receive rather… unsavoury mail from those less than enamoured with your defeat of the Dark Lord. From time to time.”

After a quick explanation of the term “Howler” by Neville, Harry was very put off by the mental image of a flock of owls dropping shouting and cursed letters off in the lounge room of Privet Drive.

“Can you remove the existing ward, and place a new one? One that’s less restrictive, and that I can modify myself as needed?”

“Certainly!” said Dufort, sounding very pleased. “There would be a corresponding increase in fees, naturally.”

After a minimal amount of haggling and more extensive discussion of requirements, Harry settled on a ward that would direct owls to only deliver mail to his bedroom (wherever it was located) and only at night. That would avoid distressing the Dursleys’ sensibilities, and prevent embarrassing scenes in the morning at breakfast at Hogwarts if he got a lot of letters. He’d hoped to set particular hours for mail, but magic wasn’t that specific and didn’t recognise clocks – during hours of darkness was the best the Warder could do.

The ward would also bar any Howlers, destroy any detectable cursed or jinxed mail (though it was explained it was not a guarantee of total success in that respect), and permit mail from anyone not explicitly banned. Dufort explained that he would supply him with an enchanted Permissions scroll linked to the ward – he would need to write on it the name or nom de plume of anyone he wished to bar from sending him mail. His theory was that the existing ward had a similar document, but one that only _permitted_ mail from those on the list.

Having the owl ward removed felt strange. It was a very uncomfortable sensation, like a layer of sunburned skin was slowly peeling away from his body with a stinging, aching feeling. He felt very raw, but somehow lighter. Master Dufort immediately afterwards started casting the new ward, which finished with a tap of his wand on Harry’s head, and a feeling like a wash of cool balm settling soothingly against his raw skin. He also got Harry to hold a blank parchment scroll in his bare hands, during the casting; it tingled in Harry’s hands during the spellcasting, then the sensation faded.

“Master Dufort?”

“Yes?”

“Will the caster of the original ward notice what we’ve done?”

“Hmm, interesting question. This ward isn’t like a property-based one – it’s not tied to the caster nor a location but to the subject’s magic or soul, and secondarily to the Permissions scroll. If they cast a spell on you checking for wards, they will notice an owl ward in operation and may assume all is well. If they are more alert, they may notice the magic in their own Permissions scroll has dissipated. It will look the same, but will not exude a magical aura anymore, as it is no longer linked to yours. Keep your own scroll safe, now.”

“Thank you, sir. I will. And thank you too, Professor Lockhart.”

“You’re welcome, Harry!” he beamed.

On the way out the door, Lockhart had a final quiet word with Harry. “By the way, I have the photo of the two of us from Colin, looking quite the dashing pair of heroes, so I just need the list of quotes from you for the Daily Prophet article. Hand it in with your next Defence homework, there’s a lad.”

***

Harry started experiencing the increase in mail from the less restrictive owl wards the very next evening. Leaving one of the dorm windows open, he let his dorm mates (and Hermione) know he was expecting an increase in mail, and would rather people didn’t gossip about it. Ron and Neville promised they wouldn’t, and most of the other boys didn’t seem very interested. Dean was the exception, who said he’d like to have his owls come to the dorm too (and would try to convince them to do so) – his mother’s owl had accidentally had a toileting accident over his breakfast plate while delivering mail a month ago, and he still hadn’t forgotten or forgiven it.

His first surprise letter was from _Gladrags Wizardwear_ , thanking him personally for being a “most valued and important customer” in the past, and inviting him to visit over Yule for their 10% off sale. _Huh_ , thought Harry, _owls deliver ads in the wizarding world. Or am I a special case?_

The next couple of days brought a few more letters. Next was what looked like a bulk-mailed invitation (as it was addressed to “Sir/Madam”) from _St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries_ to attend a Yule fundraiser or contribute funds, which he found interesting but ignored for now, being unsure of his plans for the season.

There was also a complimentary ticket to an upcoming Quidditch match from the Appleby Arrows, who were playing the Wimbourne Wasps. He wrote a polite note in response expressing his thanks for the ticket, but that he would be in school during their match, and wished them luck. He had a standing arrangement with the Hogsmeade Owl Office now to put long distance postal charges on account – he’d given them some galleons at the start of the year to draw on, so he didn’t have to fuss with change all the time. The ever-useful Percy said they’d found it unusual for a student to do so, but were willing to accommodate him given the generous advance payment.

***

Harry was in History of Magic when Neville kicked his ankle.

He had his foam earplugs in, and was bent over his desk totally absorbed in writing a Tutor-marked Assignment for Science, all about Mendelian inheritance of genetic traits. As Neville alerted him to the rare need to pay attention to the teacher with a swift kick, he looked up from his TMA to see Professor Binns facing the class for a change, rather than the blackboard.

“Goblins were to blame, sir,” he said in a confident voice, taking a wild guess as to what Binns might have asked him while palming his earplugs out as discreetly as he could.

Binns looked at him quizzically, and a few people in the class snickered. Neville looked apologetically at Harry, and silently mouthed, “Sorry!”

“Well Mr. Black, I don’t believe they had much influence on the Chamber of Secrets, though some do say that goblins helped build or ward Hogwarts, but that’s a matter of much debate,” said Binns. “If they know anything about the existence or location of the legendary Chamber they are keeping that knowledge to themselves.”

Harry sat blushing while the class listened enraptured as Hermione prompted Binns to elaborate further on the legend of the hidden Chamber of Secrets, and the Heir of Slytherin who was the only one who could open it and control the monster within.

“Next time, pass me a note,” Harry muttered to Neville.

***

After History of Magic, Ron and Hermione chatted about how twisted Slytherin must have been, and how glad they weren’t in his House.

“I wouldn’t be in his house if you paid me,” said Ron. “Honestly, if the Sorting Hat had tried to put me in Slytherin, I would’ve got the train straight back home, rather than be stuck with a bunch of crazy pure-blood elitist snobs.”

Hermione nodded fervently in agreement. “Well, I wouldn’t have wanted to be sent home, but I’m glad I’m not there as well. The Hat suggested Ravenclaw for me as an option-”

“No shock there, you’re so smart,” interjected Ron.

“-but I really preferred Gryffindor, and it agreed I’d be suited for here too.”

“It said I’d do well in Hufflepuff, but that Gryffindor was something I could grow into,” said Neville. “I want to make my family proud, and both my parents were in Gryffindor.”

“I just got Gryffindor. Gryffindor all the way!” said Ron proudly. “How about you, Harry?”

“Well, I favoured Hufflepuff, but the Hat said I wasn’t well suited for there, and would do better in Gryffindor,” he replied, leaving out quite a bit of discussion.

“That’s because you’re no duffer! You’re a brave and proud Gryffindor!” said Ron cheerfully.

Harry’s face held a smile, but the sinking feeling in his stomach told a different story. He wished the Houses didn’t have such a rivalry, thinking those other than your own were full of gits or idiots. Normal schools weren’t like this – Dudley’s wasn’t. And it was all so _silly_. Half the students probably could’ve easily ended up in another House if they’d spoken differently to the Sorting Hat, and the actual reward for the House Cup? A pitiful display of banners at the end of the year. He’d thought last year after all the fuss made over getting points that they would mean more – some kind of extra privileges for the winning House, for instance.

He tuned back in from his daydreaming when he noticed everyone in the group had stopped – they were in the corridor where Filch’s cat was petrified. The cat of course was long gone, but the words on the wall remained despite Filch’s best efforts to remove them. Harry wondered why he didn’t just paint over it if it bothered him so much, since presumably magic and elbow grease had both failed so far. Maybe the wizarding world didn’t have paint remover.

The others were fussing over the behaviour of some spiders that were trying to flee out the window; he never knew Ron was scared of spiders.

Neville told the others about the pool of water that had been on the ground when they arrived on the scene, and Hermione was trying (and failing) to persuade them to investigate a nearby girls’ bathroom.

“It wouldn’t be proper,” said Neville stiffly. Harry nodded his agreement.

“Yeah, can’t go in there,” said Ron gruffly.

Percy came by while they were still arguing about the importance of looking for clues versus the importance of respecting gender-segregated toilet facilities.

“You lot, get away from there!” he said, striding towards them, chivvying them along. “Don’t you _care_ what this looks like? Coming back here while everyone’s at dinner?”

“Hey, none of us did anything!” said Ron hotly.

“That’s what I told Ginny, but she’s still convinced Harry’s going to be expelled, and a lot of the other first years are upset too! You might think of _them_ if nothing else.”

“You’re just worried about all the upset Firsties ruining your reputation and your hopes of being Head Boy!” said Ron.

Percy took points off Ron, who scowled at him.

“Thanks for the advice, Percy,” said Harry, with a nod. It _did_ look kind of bad – like criminals returning to the scene of a crime to gloat. “We won’t come back again.”

“You’re siding with my git brother against me, your _friend_?” said Ron, aghast.

“Percy’s my friend too, Ron,” said Harry mildly. Percy smiled at him.

They argued about it on the way to the dorm to drop off their bags before dinner, but Harry didn’t back down. After a year and a bit he was quite used to compartmentalising and dealing with half of his friends not liking the other half. This was mild in comparison. And Percy was smart, and _useful_ ; he wouldn’t give him up.

In the common room that night after dinner the gang sat as far away from Percy as they could manage, and Harry joined them without commenting on it. Hermione puzzled over who the identity of the Heir of Slytherin was; she and Ron thought it was a Slytherin – probably the Muggle-born-hating Draco Malfoy. Harry thought it was just a prank.

“It’s just words, and a petrified cat. There’s no proof the Chamber even exists,” he argued.

“But Dumbledore said it would take really advanced magic to do that to Mrs. Norris,” said Neville doubtfully.

Harry shrugged. “So maybe it was a teacher.”

“What?!” said Hermione, scandalised. “No teacher would do something childish like that!”

“Sure they would. Who _doesn’t_ hate that nasty old cat?”

“I don’t!” she objected.

“Malfoy’s family _is_ very Dark, though,” contributed Neville. “His father is a Death Eater, one of You-Know-Who’s followers. He evaded incarceration by claiming he was bewitched into serving him, but my Gran says it was bribery.”

“Draco seemed surprised to see the writing, I think,” said Harry sceptically. “And I doubt he would’ve pushed to the front to gloat about ‘Mudbloods’ being in danger if he was the culprit – it’s just not smart.”

“Because _you’d_ know, being such good _pals_ with the _intelligent_ ‘Draco’ Malfoy,” said Ron scoffingly.

“I try to stay neutral, you know that Ron,” sighed Harry. “It’s not easy when Daphne and Pansy keep sniping about Hermione and vice versa, and you and Draco are feuding. I want to be friends with everyone.”

“But not _Malfoy_!”

“Well, I’m happy just to be _neutral_ with him, for Pansy’s sake – they’re good friends.”

“If _she_ likes him, that’s condemnation enough for me,” muttered Hermione. Ron grinned at her.

“Hey, she likes me too!” objected Harry.

“Well, she’s got _some_ good taste,” she countered with a grin. “Anyway, you’re family, that’s different.”

The others’ opinions were fixed, despite Harry’s arguments that Draco wouldn’t likely do such a thing; Draco was proclaimed the most likely candidate to be the Heir, and it only remained to find proof. Hermione’s wild plan to brew Polyjuice Potion and infiltrate the Slytherin common room was eagerly approved, and Hermione’s plan to get Lockhart to sign a pass for her to borrow _Moste Potente Potions_ worked with what Harry found insulting ease. But while initially on board, Neville bowed out of their plotting in the end with a white face when he heard it would probably involve stealing from Professor Snape’s private potion stores.

Harry wanted nothing to do with it, and would only promise not to tell his Slytherin friends, or Draco, so long as none of them were harmed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Binns’ error with Harry’s name is deliberate on my part – he doesn’t learn new names well (including in canon), and Harry and his father take after Dorea’s dark-haired family in appearance, somewhat.


	10. The Rogue Bludger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dobby decides to "help" Harry with a rogue bludger at Quidditch.

**_November, 1992_ **

The next day, Harry, Neville, and Hermione all convened as usual in the library for a study session, while Ron hung out with the Gryffindor Quidditch team to gossip about the upcoming match at lunchtime.

He’d asked them all to be sure to come to the match, and they’d promised they would. Harry had fished out his dad’s old Gryffindor scarf to wear along with a weekend-approved casual non-uniform robe and cloak, to show team spirit. He hadn’t worn the robe before, even though he’d gotten it last December. And since it was maroon, and his other casual clothes were either not in Gryffindor colours or too small, he thought it was about time he gave casual robes a try.

“It’s not _likely_ I’ll play,” Ron had said nervously, looking a bit green. “But we’re playing Slytherin, and they play dirty. So they _might_ take out Wood and then I’d be up as Keeper.”

Tracey stopped by their table in the library to reserve Harry for socialising with the Slytherins after Sunday breakfast. She had a smile and a greeting for everyone, including “Granger” – Harry appreciated the effort, and so did Hermione.

It was a miserable day for Quidditch – the muggy weather turned into rain very shortly into the match. Many of the older spectators cast some kind of spell that seemed to repel rain – Harry wished he knew what it was. At least Percy knew a drying charm and promised to cast it on them after the match, and offered to show them how to cast the Hot-Air Charm for themselves if they had the skill.

A bludger came barrelling straight down the pitch early in the match, right towards the Gryffindor goalkeeper who was quite close in front of them – they’d picked a good spot to barrack for Ron in case he got a turn. Fred and George Weasley seemed much occupied in defending Wood from Bludger attacks, leaving their Chasers and Seeker undefended. After a time out mid-air huddle, he’d clearly told them to attend to the other players more. A bludger came for him again – and sped up to go straight past him through the goalposts right towards the stands where Harry was sitting. Harry dodged aside at the last minute, and it bashed into his seat, before swerving away back onto the pitch.

“Merlin!” said Neville. “That was close, Harry! Bludgers shouldn’t end up in the stands!”

“That’s not supposed to happen!” Harry piped worriedly. “What’s Snape doing?” He looked over to where the Slytherins were sitting, but he _seemed_ to merely be watching the match intently; his lips weren’t moving this time, Harry was sure of it.

Out on the field, the rogue bludger had done a loop and was picking up speed as it sped straight back in their direction again.

“Look out!” Harry yelled, fumbling for his wand. People around him scattered for cover with shrieks, as he concentrated on building up power in his wand. A dim light hovered at the wand tip as he waited until the bludger neared, barrelling straight at his chest. “ _Flipendo!_ ” he cried, casting the Knockback Jinx with a burst of purple-red light. It knocked it away only about five feet, which wasn’t as impressive as he’d hoped for such a small object. As the thought drifted through his mind that Bludgers were enchanted to be resistant to other magic, the Bludger changed direction with a quick loop and went for him again. Neville yanked him to one side and he fell mostly out of its path, but it hit his right arm with a sickening cracking noise and a burst of pain.

Madam Hooch, some other teachers, and the Weasley twins were converging quickly on his location, but the bludger seemed to have thankfully decided it had done enough damage and was returning to the field in a lazily random pattern, aiming for the nearest player as its enchantments were supposed to ensure. Madam Hooch blew her whistle to pause the match, on her way in towards Harry.

“Maybe it didn’t get the memo that I quit the team,” Harry said, through gritted teeth. “I’m pretty sure my arm’s broken.”

“Stout heart, Harry,” said Neville, “Madam Pomfrey will fix you up. My arm’s as good as new. It will only take a day.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, and glanced at his arm. He saw it was hanging at a very strange angle… and then he fainted.

When he came round a few moments later, a crowd of people were around him, including Neville, Ron, Hermione, Wood, one of the identical Weasleys, and Professor Lockhart. Colin Creevey was bent over, shoving through the bodies at waist-height so he could get a clear shot at some great photos.

“I don’t want a photo of this, Creevey,” he said loudly.

Professor Lockhart offered to fix his arm, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So half an hour later, Harry was explaining to the disgruntled Madam Pomfrey that of course he hadn’t _wanted_ Lockhart to remove all the bones in his arm – something must have gone wrong with the man’s spell. Something horrifically dangerous – if it had been cast on his head, spine or chest, he probably would’ve died instantly! It made him shake with fear in thought of the possibilities that might have been.

Madam Pomfrey’s attitude softened in reaction to his obvious fear, and she gave him a pleasant-tasting Calming Draught before coming back with a steaming goblet of Skele-Gro. It tasted awful and made him splutter.

“You’re in for a rough night, I’m afraid,” she said sympathetically. “Regrowing bones is a nasty business.”

“At least it can be done,” Harry said gratefully. “Muggles can’t do that – I’d be stuck with hours of surgery and replacement bones made of metal, I think.”

Madam Pomfrey shuddered. “Steel, I would guess? You’d never cast spells again, with iron embedded permanently in your aura. Try and avoid that at all costs.”

“I think they use titanium?”

“What’s that?”

“Another type of metal.”

“Probably not so bad, then. But still not a good idea. Aren’t you glad you’re here?”

As she bustled away drawing open his bed-curtains to let his friends visit, Harry thought that if he _hadn’t_ been here a teacher wouldn’t have made his bones vanish. Nor would he have been attacked by crazed sporting equipment in the first place.

Neville, Hermione and Ron visited first, then the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team (filthy and soaking wet). Before Madam Hooch had called a time out their new Seeker Dunbar had caught the Snitch.

“Malfoy was just staring in your direction,” said Dunbar, “he didn’t even notice the Snitch right near his ear, so I grabbed it!”

They’d brought snacks and drinks and seemed ready for a party, but Madam Pomfrey found them “too rowdy” and shooed them all out of the hospital wing.

Ron muttered to Hermione about how Malfoy was probably behind the rogue bludger.

“I wonder how he did it,” said Ron darkly.

Pansy, Millicent, Tracey, Daphne, and Draco visited after the Gryffindors had left. Harry eyed Draco a little nervously, but was pretty sure that if he _was_ behind the bludger attack, he wouldn’t try anything with obvious witnesses standing right there. Pansy had brought him a bottle of Butterbeer, and Tracey had brought him a library book.

“It’s _Blood Brothers: My Life Amongst the Vampires_. It’s by Eldred Worple, and it’s much better than Lockhart’s _Voyages_. I’ve got it out for another two weeks and I’ve already read it, so you’re welcome to keep it for a bit of light reading while you’re recovering,” Tracey explained. “I know you like Defence so I thought you might appreciate it.”

“I do, thanks,” he smiled. He winced shortly afterwards though, rubbing at his arm gently and carefully as stabbing pains started going through it.

Draco didn’t say anything except a murmured “Get well soon”, much like the others. Harry wondered why he came along but figured it must have been Pansy’s idea. If it was to quietly gloat at his injury he was certainly doing a good job of acting innocent.

***

Harry woke in the middle of the night to prickling pain in his arm, and his house-elf stalker sponging his forehead in the dark.

“Ahh! Get off!” he cried out loudly, and then, “Dobby?!”

“Harry Potter _promised_ ,” the morose looking elf said, “but Harry Potter came to school instead of staying home where he would be safe.”

“I said I wouldn’t go if I could help it - that I’d _try_ ,” rebutted Harry, fumbling for his glasses off the bedside table, “and I did. I told Professor McGonagall that threats had been made, and that I wanted to stay home, but she refused. I just _can’t_ quit Hogwarts – they won’t let me.”

Dobby sobbed about how he was sorry for accusing him so. “Dobby is not free to do as he wishes either, Harry Potter. Dobby thought Harry Potter could do what he wishes, for Harry Potter is a wizard. Dobby was so shocked when he heard Harry Potter was at Hogwarts again that he let his master’s dinner burn! Such a flogging Dobby never had, sir...”

“You’re _flogged_ for kitchen accidents?!” Harry said, appalled. “That’s horrible!”

Dobby wailed about Harry’s nobility and kindness, until he was ordered to quiet down. He refused to say who his master was, only that he treated Dobby like vermin (even though many house-elves were better treated ever since Harry’s defeat of You-Know-Who).

“But Harry Potter _must_ find a way to go home. Surely now Dobby’s bludger has injured Harry Potter, he can go leave to be with his family, and-”

“ _Your_ bludger?!” Harry said, and scrambled frantically in the dark for his wand, somewhere among the snacks and gifts littering his bedside table. He found it, and pointed it at Dobby with his left hand. “So it was _you_ who tried to kill me! Explain yourself!”

Dobby babbled quickly about how he only wanted to _injure_ Harry badly enough that he’d be sent home (or to a hospital) for his own good, given the danger posed at Hogwarts by the Chamber of Secrets being open once more.

After that, he seemed horror struck that he might have revealed too much, and smashed his head with Harry’s water jug. Which for Harry was a big clue that whatever the alleged bad wizards were up to that might endanger Harry involved the Chamber of Secrets. But despite all Harry’s urging, he could get nothing further of any use out of the crazed little elf before the sound of approaching footsteps caused him to disappear.

After a quick muttered “ _Reparo_ ” on the water jug Harry pretended to be asleep and listened carefully as, to his horror, the petrified form of Colin Creevey was brought into the hospital wing. He eavesdropped on the conversation between Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore, and it definitely sounded like they were convinced the Chamber was both real, and opened by someone.

“But Albus… surely… _who_?” said McGonagall.

“The question is not _who_ ,” said Dumbledore, his eyes on Colin. “The question is, _how_ …”

Harry wasn’t sure if it was reassuring that Dumbledore knew who was behind the attacks, or frightening. It would depend on whether someone was arrested tomorrow or not. Given his lack of action against whomever had jinxed his broom last year (he still thought it was more likely to be Snape than Quirrell), he wasn’t holding out a lot of hope.

And the next couple of days proved his more pessimistic side right – nothing was accomplished as the rumours about Colin spread, except a lot of students starting to band together in tight little huddles as they moved around the castle. The teachers were all useless, and couldn’t be relied on to do anything constructive or helpful. Colin was just _lying_ there – wouldn’t they even send him to hospital? Surely the school wasn’t the only source of Mandrake Restorative draught? He could understand waiting for the sake of a cat, but not a _student_. Couldn’t St. Mungo’s help? Was this a budget issue, or a PR one? And why wouldn’t the headmaster announce the culprit, and _do_ something?

Harry made sure to tell Neville that he had access to his vault, just in case.

“Nev, in case I get petrified I want you to know that I’ve made sure you, and only you, can access my trust vault.”

“What? I’m a signatory on your vault?”

“It’s for emergencies. Like if I get petrified. I want you to make sure I get taken to St. Mungo’s. I don’t want to wait for Snape to brew a restorative draught. I want proper medical attention – I don’t want my life to depend on an ex-Death Eater who hates me. Muggle treatment if it’s better than the magical kind, too, though that won’t apply in cases of petrification or bone loss. And you can use my money to pay for it.”

“I… I don’t, that is, it’s an honour, but…” Neville looked rather panicked.

“You can get your Gran to help. Or Pansy’s dad. You just help them pay for things, okay?”

Neville slumped with relief. “I think I’d need help to argue with Madam Pomfrey or the Headmaster. Especially if I was having to say how waiting for Snape’s potion wasn’t good enough.”

“Maybe Lockhart could help too…” mused Harry.

“After what he did to your arm?!”

“Merlin, no! Not with _spells_. With people management. Don’t let him cast a single spell on me!” Harry shuddered. He didn’t want to end up petrified. But if he did, he _definitely_ didn’t want to end up dead because Lockhart mispronounced another spell. The more he read of Lockhart’s books (and saw him in class), the less impressed he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picky grammar purists are welcome to comment on the proper punctuation of this sentence (and others that are similar with dialogue in the middle of the sentence):
> 
> Draco didn’t say anything except a murmured “Get well soon”, much like the others.
> 
> It’s a tricky case that really bugs me, and I haven’t found anything definitive on punctuating quoted dialogue in the middle of a sentence. UK standard preferred, with references if possible.


	11. Joining the Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry joins an organisation very briefly known as SPEW, and gains a new pen pal. Hermione plots to brew Polyjuice.

**_December 1992_ **

Despite the distractions afforded by a petrified student, and her secretive plot with Ron to brew Polyjuice Potion, Hermione still found time to wrap up her research into house-elves and form a plan. Harry’s tale about Dobby’s latest visit seemed to engender a lot of sympathy in her heart for it, hearing how he was flogged at home for kitchen mistakes.

Harry was still sympathetic, but a little less so ever since Dobby had admitted he was responsible for sending the bludger at him. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it sounded, being a house-elf.

“You know I still think it’s bad how he’s treated, but maybe it was a _really bad_ kitchen accident, like the whole family dinner being burnt to a crisp. And we don’t know they use an actual whip – it could just be a belt. That’s not so bad for ruining dinner.”

Hermione yelled at him for his backsliding, Ron looked shocked, and Neville exuded a quiet sympathy.

“Well, what would _you_ expect if you ruined dinner?” Harry asked stubbornly.

“I don’t cook dinner – I only set the table. So it wouldn’t come up. If I spill milk at breakfast time I just have to clean it up myself,” said Hermione. “That’s a _rational_ kind of response.”

“Mum never lets us help in the kitchen except to clean up,” said Ron. “She says we just make it all twice as much work for her. We can’t use magic at home anyway. Mum hits your hand with a wooden spoon if you do something like steal cookies off the tray, but she laughs when she does it. It’s funny, not mean.”

Neville looked a little shifty. “I don’t cook either.”

“Uh huh,” said Harry a little sceptically. Ron and Hermione sure seemed spoiled from his point of view (if not quite as much as Dudley). Though maybe most kids were treated that way, and he was an exception. He didn’t really want to think about that idea too closely though. That painful truth hurt too much. “I’m more worried about how he irons his hands. That sounds dreadful. As does the part where he _almost killed me_.”

“Driven to it, by desperation to help you. I thought you dealt very kindly with him, all things considered Harry. So well done,” said Hermione encouragingly. “Now, let’s talk about S.P.E.W.” She emptied a box of badges onto the library table and smiled at them all.

Some discussion later about the difference between vomit and an appropriate name for a club, the badges were returned to their box, and the society only very briefly known as the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare was insistently renamed to the H.E.L.P. Society. It was Harry’s suggested alternative and stood for “House Elf Liberation and Protection”, easily beating Hermione’s other suggestion of “Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status” and Ron’s joking “People United against Killing Elves”. Neville proposed “House-Elf Club” but agreed it wasn’t as catchy as Harry’s suggestion.

“Lockhart says a catchy title improves sales by at least ten per cent,” explained Harry. “You want to get the most people to join as possible, right? You don’t want people embarrassed to say ‘I love being in S.P.E.W.’, or ‘I’d like to learn more about S.P.E.W.’ We need a more positive name.”

They reviewed their accumulated snippets of knowledge about house-elves, in preparation for forming their agenda. Hermione had scrolls to hand out with a hand-written dot point list to share. She said she’d made a lot more to give to any new club members who joined.

**_House-Elves - Hidden Slaves!_ **

  * **_History:_** _House-elves have been enslaved for centuries – as long as the earliest books record. There are fragmentary references to forest-elves, but they don’t appear to be extant. There is speculation by some that house-elves are bound to serve wizards as part of an ancient punishment of their kind for some insult committed millennia ago._
  * **_Ministry Regulation:_** _The Ministry of Magic’s “Office for House-Elf Relocation”, which is part of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, handles matters such as quick settling of inheritance disputes where house-elves are involved, and act as a de facto slave market for purchases of house-elves, brokering sales between witches and wizards. Muggles may not own house-elves. Muggle-borns living in a Muggle area must “prove” their capability to care for a house-elf._
  * **_Status and Rights:_** _Despite their intelligence and human-like appearance, house-elves are deemed to be Servi class Beings and are treated like property, with rights similar to pets in the Muggle world; old and sick ones may be “put down”, you may not steal or mistreat another’s elf, and gross mistreatment may attract the attention of the authorities with a token financial penalty. They may not use or carry wands or weapons, or hold or inherit any property of their own. None are paid for their labour._
  * **_Property Bond:_** _House-elves need to reside in magical areas or with a magical household for their survival. They are bound to a property, and magically under the control of the property owner to the point that property inheritance disputes may sometimes be resolved by judging whose commands the house-elves respond to. In cases of complicated inheritance disputes or property sales difficulties, the bond between an elf and a property may be damaged. This may allow a house-elf an opportunity to leave due to a state of semi-freedom but usually results in suffering (impaired magical or mental abilities and physical “withering”) or even death in rare cases, unless their bond is re-formalised by one of the claimants. This is done by accepting their verbal promise of servitude while standing on the property they are to be bonded to, while verbally claiming ownership of both the property and the elf. House-elf children are automatically enslaved to their mother’s property upon birth._
  * **_Compulsions:_** _No-one is aware of the nature of the charms or curses that compel loyalty and servitude (few are even convinced of their existence). House-elves must be obedient and courteous to their master, keep their master’s secrets, and uphold family honour. Breaking these rules triggers a compulsion to self-punishment. House-elves transferred to a new property may still feel a lesser compulsion to serve their former owners. I would speculate that they also feel a strong compulsion to **enjoy** work and serving their masters, given the universally held opinion that they love to serve. _
  * **_Names:_** _They come when their name is called by a property resident, or by a visitor familiar with the house-elf’s name (unless ordered to ignore said call by the property owner). Hogwarts has over a hundred resident house-elves; their names and location are traditionally kept secret to prevent students calling on them or disturbing them. All house-elves have simple pet-like names, and no surnames._
  * **_Clothes & Freedom: _**_Preferred dress is a small toga of a simple rectangle of cloth; house-elves will often improvise if nothing is specifically provided. Only being specifically gifted with “proper” clothes by the property owner will free a house-elf (traditionally a small robe and shoes). In rare cases, a frail house-elf will not survive being freed (freedom is usually only a brief state before a new owner is found)._



 “This is… _long_ ,” said Ron.

“I assure you I cut it down a _lot_ to make it short and punchy,” said Hermione. “I left out a whole section about the so-called ‘laws’ against mistreating them, which are barely worth the paper they’re written on. I wanted it to be short and readable by new members of S.P.E.W. Or, well, the H.E.L.P. Society.”

Harry supposed it was short, by Hermione’s standards.

“You might like to note by the way that your Slytherin friends were _wrong_ in their assumption, shared by some less well-informed authors, that house-elves need to be bonded to a property when inherited,” Hermione said with a note of smug self-satisfaction in her voice. “That is only required in cases of ongoing property disputes such as when there’s a family line dying out, or transfer of bonding to a new property you’ve purchased. It’s usually as automatic as inheriting the doors and windows along with the rest of the house. It’s an incredibly restrictive kind of curse enslaving them and their children in perpetuity, I think.”

“So you still want to free them, then?” asked Ron.

“Isn’t that what we’ve all been working on?”

“I thought once you looked into it you’d see how happy they are,” said Ron with a shrug. “They _like_ being ‘enslaved’.”

“What about you two?” said Hermione, looking disappointed.

Neville said awkwardly, “Well… I… that is, I think that perhaps… you know that some are mistreated. Like Dobby. If they’re not treated… perhaps it would be nice if someone helped. If they’re trying their best but it’s not… not good enough for their family. And then they’re punished for that. Someone could help them. If… if they notice. And think it’s wrong.”

Harry gave him an empathic look. “Things can always get better. For, you know, house-elves that are underappreciated. They can learn how to get their family to treat them better. Or maybe find friends… other house-elves… who appreciate them for who they are.”

“What good is it if they find a mate when their children are enslaved too, though?!” said Hermione, accidentally interrupting their bonding moment and oblivious to the hidden depth of their conversation. “We _can_ work on getting improved treatment for those house-elves who aren’t ready for freedom yet, though. It’s a good idea.”

“I think freedom would be a bit scary if you’re not used to it,” mused Harry, still looking a bit lost in thought. “Where would they even go? Maybe ease them into the idea. Who knows if they even _can_ be truly free, without their lives being in danger.”

They hashed out an agenda for their group (focusing on consciousness-raising, and eventual legal reform including wages and fair treatment), and everyone formally joined the group, even Ron (with a sigh), despite his conviction that house-elves would rather be left alone to get on with their work. He didn’t want to be left out of their club.

They discussed how to find the Hogwarts house-elves so they could talk to them about their working conditions and encourage them to join their society.

“The Heads of Houses are the gate-keepers for contacting the house-elves, so we might need to go through Professor McGonagall,” said Hermione. “Parvati Patil says house-elves at Hogwarts will accommodate special diets - they’re happy to provide beef-free options on request. She talked to Professor McGonagall about it.”

“How did she know to ask for that? I never heard about it,” asked Ron curiously. “Do you think they’d make me a caramel slice?”

“Her sister Padma told her about it. _She_ heard from Anthony Goldstein (who’s in Ravenclaw with her) that you can talk to your Head of House about getting special meals made. But it is more work, and they don’t want everyone abusing the house-elves by trying to order favourite dishes all the time, so it’s only an option if you have a genuine need, like an allergy or a religious obligation. Not just extra desserts, Ron.”

“Hey, you know I could get some dairy-free desserts!” said Harry, perking up as he thought about it. “And soy milk for cereal!”

“Harry!”

“What? I’m lactose intolerant. It’d be nice to have more options and I could use the calcium.”

“You’re managing fine – don’t make the house-elves’ lives harder!”

“They’re happy working though. Isn’t that enough?” said Ron, bewildered. “What I honestly don’t get is why you care so much about this in the first place? It’s not like it affects you.”

“Slavery affects me, it affects _everyone_. One of my ancestors was a slave, a many times great grandfather. Just because of the colour of his skin, people thought he wasn’t a real person, and should spend his life in misery toiling for the profit of others. My mother says we should never forget our roots. And the prejudice against house-elves, or even against the Muggle-born, is exactly that same kind of bigotry. That some of us aren’t _real_ people – not as worthy of equal treatment.” Harry looked at her unmanageably frizzy hair, and lightly browned skin. He’d thought she was white, just with a tan.

“You uh… identify as Black?” Harry asked as politely as he knew how.

“No, Caucasian, if I have to choose something. But my mother identifies as Black. And the fact that I don’t think of myself that way doesn’t mean I have to deny that part of my heritage,” she said. “My mum is darker-skinned than me or dad – she got picked on in school for it, but I never have been. There’s always been plenty of other things girls like to make fun of,” she said bitterly. “Race is just a ‘social construct’ anyway – people drawing lines to separate ‘us’ from ‘them’. I think it’s what causes half the trouble in the world.”

“What book are you quoting this time?” asked Ron.

“I’m quoting my mother, if you must know,” she said with a sniff.

“I think there’s a lot of prejudice in the wizarding world, including here at Hogwarts,” said Harry, cutting off another bickering argument before it got entrenched. “For instance, have you noticed there’s no Squib students in our year? Statistically, I suspect there should be.”

“But how could they study magic?” said Ron. “It’s better they go, you know, elsewhere.”

“I like the idea of being more inclusive, but I don’t think they could handle a magic-focused curriculum, Harry,” said Hermione doubtfully.

“Maybe not some of the subjects. But there’s enough subjects like Herbology, History of Magic, and Astronomy that they could do a decent workload. Some subjects later on too, like Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies. Still, maybe they just don’t _want_ to come. I could understand that.”

“No, they’re not allowed to,” said Neville quietly.

Harry sighed. “Well, they should be.”

***

Percy was impressed at breakfast one morning to see Harry featured in the _Daily Prophet_. He brought over the paper to show them, though Harry said he’d already seen it. The paper had sent him a complimentary advance copy and an offer for discounted subscription with the previous evening’s owl delivery – he’d decided not to take up their offer at this time. He’d been more distracted by the anonymous letter writer who hoped he’d be caught for what he did to Colin, and a different anonymous writer congratulating him for getting rid of an exceptionally annoying Muggle-born, if indeed he was responsible.

“You made the front page, Harry! Andy Smudgley’s article is half about Lockhart, and half you,” he eagerly displayed the paper for them to admire. There was a moving photo of the two of them right under the title “ _Lockhart’s Protégé: the Boy Who Lived!_ ” – Lockhart looked resplendent in gold-embroidered purple robes, grinning a charming smile while striking dramatic poses, while Harry looked quite drab in his plain black school robes, smiling politely and occasionally nodding politely or giving a little wave. When in the photo Lockhart tried to put an arm around Harry’s shoulders companionably, Harry would co-incidentally happen to take a small step to the side.

“Am I in it?” asked Ron eagerly.

“Uh no. It’s mostly about Lockhart, though there’s a few quotes from me. They’ve expanded them out quite a bit, but it’s not too bad.”

“When did they come take a photo? We all could’ve been in it!” Ron said, gesturing around at the group of friends.

“I didn’t _want_ a photographer or reporter bugging me. So it’s one of Colin’s photos – look, there’s the greenhouses in the background.”

“’Harry Potter says he’s very impressed not just with the magnificent and unbelievable deeds of heroism done by his teacher and mentor, Professor Lockhart, but is also amazed by his skill as a writer.’” Harry winced as Hermione read out part of the article, sounding impressed.

Ron snorted with a bit of laughter. “’Unbelievable’. Good one, Harry.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, it’s padded out a bit, but that word is one I wrote in the original quote. Nice, huh?”

Ron was very amused, but his twin brothers were amused in a different fashion, and suggested that Harry was going to win the crown of “Suck Up Champion” off the reigning king Percy at this rate. Percy took two points off them, but it didn’t seem to slow them down any.

“But I thought you didn’t like being famous?” asked Neville, trying to ignore the pair’s laughing suggestions in the background to Harry that he offer to clean Lockhart’s shoes with his tongue. Eww. Percy said to just ignore them; he always tried to. Hermione was coming to Lockhart’s defense, and only incidentally Harry’s, in standing up for Lockhart’s “justifiably heroic reputation”.

“Yeah, I mean, yes, that’s true,” Harry said, a little distracted but doing his best to ignore the byplay, “but I owed Lockhart a favour for helping with my owl ward.”

“Do you want to tell people everyone that? I thought you were trying to keep that business secret? Because if you don’t, people are going to assume you’re just angling for more attention.”

Harry winced. “Well, at least you guys and Pansy and the others will understand. I don’t know about the rest of the school though.” He sighed. Maybe he hadn’t thought this through properly. He’d really thought the article would be mostly about Lockhart – that’s how _he’d_ made it sound. This was more like half and half.

The twins were still laughing about his praise of Lockhart. They apparently had concluded that Harry should purchase a peacock feather quill for signing his autographs with, just like his hero. “Oh Professor Lockhart, you always choose the _best_ quills,” said one, in an overly smarmy voice in imitation of Harry. Lee Jordan accidentally put his elbow in his plate of eggs, he was laughing so hard at their antics. Harry scowled. His voice wasn’t _that_ high-pitched and squeaky, and he wasn’t _that_ bad. Anyway, it worked, didn’t it? He’d gotten that owl ward fixed, and had a regular supply of passes to the Restricted Section, and that was well worth the price of an occasional bit of flattery.

Later while “taking a turn about the grounds” with Pansy and the other girls, plus Draco who seemed to have quietly been invited along by someone (Harry wished he hadn’t been, but didn’t say anything), Harry explained to them about the deal with Lockhart.

“Well, you remember how Lockhart set up the Warder to discreetly visit to break the owl ward on me?”

The girls nodded, and Draco looked quietly intrigued.

“So the photo and the quotes for the article were the payback favour for him for that arrangement. I really thought the article would focus more on him than myself, however.”

“You paid for the Warder yourself though,” objected Millicent.

“But I had no idea how to even start finding a Master Warder, let alone the ability to smuggle one into Hogwarts during term. And Dufort was great – well worth the money.”

“I haven’t noticed you getting more mail?” observed Draco questioningly.

“The new ward directs mail to my dorm – it only arrives at night. That way no-one makes a fuss over it. It’ll help once I’m home too – my relatives aren’t keen on owls.”

“Sneaky,” said Draco, sounding impressed.

“Just trying to keep things appearing a bit more normal,” said Harry, uncomfortably. “I don’t want to stand out.”

Millicent smiled meaningfully at him. “I know.”

***

Harry’s mail was gradually increasing every week, partly in response to the article in the _Daily Prophet_ , and also because he’d he started sending out replies to some of his letters. There were a number of letters from people he’d never heard of who loved seeing him in the article, and praising Lockhart, and a couple who warned him that Lockhart wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. He sent a brief reply thanking all of them; it seemed the courteous thing to do. Some, thrilled to hear back from him, wrote to him a second time in response to that.

He had exchanged a couple of letters with St. Mungo’s about their Yule fundraiser (he was considering attending, and was interested in hearing more about how the hospital operated). And the Appleby Arrows were _thrilled_ to hear back from him – apparently they’d been sending him tickets every season for years despite the total lack of response. Their manager apparently felt he owed his life to Harry, as his Muggle-born family was being targeted back in the war shortly before Harry’s defeat of You-Know-Who. They’d asked what his robe size was – a Christmas present of some clothes was probably in the offing, Harry guessed. He was also promised a try-out for the team once he graduated, if he was interested and if there was an opening for Seeker.

He had a particularly interesting piece of personal mail one evening when an unsigned letter to him arrived borne by an unremarkable speckled tawny owl.

_To Mr. Harry James Potter, Heir of the Noble House of Potter,_

_I hope this missive finds you in good health, and I heartily wish you a most joyous Yule celebration. I hope you will find an opportunity this year to visit one of the Circles to join your peers in the renewal of magic this solstice._

_I am starting to wonder if you are receiving my letters at all Mr. Potter, given your remarkable and uncharacteristically impolite lack of response to my prior two missives. Let me assure you that the appropriate response if you are unwilling to open a correspondence is to send a brusque note to that effect, so as to decidedly deter future attempts at engaging your attention. As you lack a family Head of House to turn to in supervising and guiding your correspondence, you must deal with the matter personally._

_I have the small comfort of being assured that you are destroying my correspondence (or someone else is on your behalf), rather than sharing it without my permission. A small monitoring spell placed on my last letter assured me of that much. This letter has been deliberately left unsigned, sent without any enchantments or touch of my magic, and in the keeping of a generic hired owl from an owl office (I shall not say where). Should you wish to correspond, the owl delivering this letter has been instructed to wait for a response (up to a day) unless instructed to depart. I have taken these various measures in case there are specific wards against my own personal correspondence with you._

_So this missive remains unsigned, except to say that I greatly enjoyed teaching you last year, and I hope one day we shall be able to open a correspondence or meet again, for you were a most promising and helpful student._

Harry was intrigued to receive a letter from his old Professor, who’d clearly been trying to reach him for some time – he’d have to write back. Given Quirrell was still wanted for the theft of the Philosopher’s Stone (though he wasn’t sure how common that knowledge was), his caution seemed understandable. Harry still wasn’t sure how he felt about being used to help steal the stone. He was certainly curious to know how it had worked out for him, though – it would be worth writing if only to find that out. He might feel he owed Harry a big favour for his healing – and he had in any case promised to lend the stone to Harry at a future date. He might not be entirely trustworthy but the man’s motivations and plans were straightforward and easily understood – self-interest in his own health and survival, and a feeling of camaraderie from seeing his younger self reflected in Harry. And once you knew how someone saw you, what they wanted from you, then you knew how to act to keep things pleasant. Sure, he would use Harry if he could, but otherwise meant him no harm. So, a bit like Aunt Petunia, really. _Maybe Professor Quirrell is a **tiny** bit fond of me too, like she is_ , he thought a little wistfully. There must be a reason he bothered to keep writing, when Harry could do nothing further to help him.

Telling his dorm mates it was a letter from home (letters from Dudley were so common this attracted no interest), he sat down to write a reply straight away, lest the tawny owl become impatient for a response. He offered it a Cornish pastie he’d tucked away for emergencies, and it pecked at it politely. He wrote out a carefully vague draft letter to match Quirrell’s tone, then an edited good version with less splotches from his quill and his best attempt at formal language.

_Dear Former Slytherin,_

_I am most amenable to opening a correspondence with you, and I apologise for my prior lack of communication. It was unknowingly hampered by an owl ward placed some time ago by someone powerful, without my knowledge or consent. It has since been replaced with one that won’t limit my correspondents to a pre-approved list, and is now under my own personal control._

_I hope that you have recovered from the severe head cold that was plaguing you when last we spoke. Was the medicine acquired efficacious in relieving your cough? I hope all is now well and you have not suffered any unpleasant side effects._

_School has been going moderately well this year, though a nasty prank that petrified Filch’s cat seems to have escalated into someone now petrifying a student. Graffiti claiming the Chamber of Secrets has been opened has everyone in a tizzy. Dumbledore seems certain he knows who the culprit is, but has done nothing to act on that knowledge, and the victim lies still as stone in the hospital wing, disregarded._

_I have been having some personal trouble with a house-elf; I don’t suppose you own one who might have snuck off to try and warn me of danger at school? If you think it might be yours, I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d ask it to stop trying to help – it almost killed me at the last Quidditch match when it enchanted a bludger in hopes of injuring me sufficiently to have me sent home. My friends and I have been researching the origins of house-elves, and the laws around their treatment – it’s very interesting and we hope we can help them get better care._

_My studies are going well, and I have made great progress in my extra-curricular work on continuing to study the Shield Charm. Its limitations seem interesting, and I wonder if you might know why it can block most spells but not **all**? Is it simply a matter of the sheer power of the spell? Can one cast Protego on another person, and would that affect its strength or nature, do you think? Professor Flitwick has been most encouraging of what he knows of my studies in Charms, and praises my mother’s skill in them. I think it is possible that she once worked on developing a variant Shield Charm._

_With my cordial regards,_

_Almost Slytherin_

The owl took his letter with a happy hoot, and flew off immediately.

The next chance he got, Harry asked Pansy and Daphne something he felt he really should have addressed sooner – what the difference was between a “Noble”, “Ancient” and “Sacred” family.

“I’ve been assuming it was merely a courtesy adjective,” he explained, as the group (sans Draco) gathered in the library for a chat, “but a letter I received recently seemed to treat it very much as a title, even though I’ve been previously informed my father was not a nobleman. I do know that old Cantankerus just made up the title ‘Sacred’ as a modern invention to designate the most pure-blood extant families. Except those families that he didn’t seem to like for some reason.”

“It’s still a meaningful title, even if it is new,” sniffed Pansy. “The others don’t really mean much anymore, but they’re used for courtesy.”

“What do they mean, precisely?”

Pansy looked hesitant. “I’m not sure, really. ‘Ancient’ is older than ‘Noble’. They mean you have a really old wizarding family. Ancient outranks Noble.”

“’Noble’ means your family had a patrilineal ancestor in the earliest recognised formal Wizengamot - the Wizards’ Council in 1066,” said Tracey, looking very smug at knowing something Pansy didn’t. “The Witenagemot, or Wizenagemot, was a tradition restarted by the Founders, and it became formalised not long after that in response to the invading Norman army – for the magical community to decide as a group how to respond to the invasion.”

“You really know your history!” said Harry, impressed. There was certainly nothing about that in their History of Magic textbook.

“Ooh, so that’s why the Malfoy family isn’t Noble!” said Daphne. “They came over with the French, you know. With William the Conqueror. So they were on the wrong side of the war to be on the Wizards’ Council!”

“What about the ‘Ancient’ title?” Harry asked Tracey. Pansy folded her arms and looked grumpily puggish.

Tracey gave a brief superior glance at Pansy. “Well, that’s an older title. And more disputed, but basically if your family hasn’t been using it for centuries then there’s no point trying to claim it. Those families claim they can trace their family origins all the way back to magical families in Rome.”

“So they’re Italian?”

She looked hesitant. “Well… Roman. That covered a lot of countries, depending on what year you’re counting from. The Romans invaded Britain too, you know.”

“There _is_ a distinct difference between _Rome_ and _Roman_ , Tracey,” said Pansy snappishly.

“Do enlighten us with your _extensive_ knowledge on the topic then, Pans,” Tracey said with a saccharine smile.

“Not in public, darlings,” said Daphne. “You are _Slytherins_ , after all.” Pansy and Tracey got up silently and packed away their things with stonily blank faces. They murmured a brief goodbye to Harry, Daphne and Millicent.

“Where are they going off together? Have they mended their fight already? Did I miss something?” asked Harry after they had left. “All it took was reminding them of House pride, perhaps?”

“Not exactly,” said Daphne. “It’s a House rule. You stand united in public. So they’re off to go bicker in private.”

“Pansy’s sore because she got shown up in front of you,” smirked Millicent. “It’s not often she gets challenged; she’s a sore loser. And she prides herself on her knowledge of traditions so it’s really going to smart this time. Tracey will be gloating for a week, I bet.”

Daphne monopolised Harry’s attention for the rest of the afternoon, getting him to tutor her in Charms, on the grounds that he owed her for her intervention on the train at the start of the year. She promised that once she’d mastered some spells that were taxing her capabilities, his debt would be repaid. So he put a little more effort into teaching her quickly, but it was clearly going to take a couple of sessions, so they set a couple of dates to meet up later. With Millicent as chaperone.

“It’s not a hardship – I get tutoring for free,” Millicent said happily.

“Could I bring Neville to chaperone?” asked Harry. “He needs to practice Charms too.”

“Well, he could accompany us as well. But you couldn’t bring him on his own. A proper young lady needs a female chaperone. Unless you’re slyly courting one of us,” said Daphne.

Harry’s instinctively disgusted face made both the girls giggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my reviewer Kat, who wanted to see someone call Harry out on being such an incredible suck-up. :)


	12. The Duelling Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry attends the inaugural session of the Duelling Club.

**_December 1992_ **

Harry had another letter from Professor Quirrell a week later. A lovely snowy owl brought a letter one frosty winter’s night, addressed on the outside of the envelope merely to “Harry Potter, Hogwarts”, but more creatively addressed at the start of the letter itself.

_To Mr. Harry James Potter, Heir of the Noble House of Potter, the Almost Slytherin,_

_How simply delightful to hear from you at last. I am most pleased to hear you have resolved the problem with your mail and are interested in corresponding._

_I do miss my time in my former profession, but circumstances necessitated a swift removal that left little leisure for proper farewells. I hope you and some of my other more promising students are continuing your studies under a capable replacement this year._

Harry thought “capable” might not be quite the right word, but since Professor Lockhart had eventually given up on making him re-enact things in class and let him sit there quietly and do his own work, Harry was quite happy enough. He was learning a lot from Professor Lockhart… just not in class time.

_I am sorry to say that the medicine I acquired when last we spoke turned out to be fake – a mere sham remedy concocted to fool the buyer. Or perhaps the seller I acquired it from was also fooled as to its potency. Perhaps I shall never know, which vexes me greatly. _

_I have been searching for the brewers of the original receipt. But as far as all their friends and acquaintances are aware, they passed away peacefully in their sleep a couple of weeks ago. My spells have determined that the bodies in their alleged graves are but cunning simulacra – yet perhaps none have discovered this but I alone. They have hidden themselves somewhere and I cannot find them despite all my searching. I cannot plead my case and beg for medicine to heal my suffering._

So it seemed the Flamels had faked their death, and Quirrell wasn’t sure if Dumbledore knew about that or not, or if the Stone was fake. Harry rather thought it more likely that Quirrell was hoping to steal the real Philosopher’s Stone if he could find the Flamels, rather than ask for their help, but it would be rude to comment on that.

_How curious that the Chamber is allegedly open again once more. I doubt this is truly so, for the petrifications seem to point perhaps at another cause rather than the Chamber truly being opened. There are always those who seek to ride on the coattails of those with more notorious accomplishments than their own, having no great reputation themselves for good or ill. For the last time the Chamber was allegedly open, there was a single death, and a few injuries, but no petrifications. The man held responsible for the attacks last time is one now esteemed by the Headmaster as a friend, so he may be hesitant to accuse him unless driven to it. He has little care for the welfare of those who are not personal favourites of his, so I am unsurprised to hear of the neglect of a lone injured student of presumably no particular social or political standing._

Interesting. So he thought the Chamber wasn’t actually opened at all, and that a friend of the Headmaster’s was behind it all last time. He wasn’t very clear about who, which was a shame. Quirrell’s guess seemed to be that it was now someone just badly imitating the last attacks, anyway.

_I regret to say I cannot contribute any advice on the matter of your house-elf troubles. I have never troubled myself to study the creatures, and know only of their loyal obedience to their Masters’ commands. I do not retain the services of a house-elf at this time, and most assuredly did not send one to you._

Well, it had been a long shot, but he thought it was worth checking.

_I am pleased you are continuing your studies. You are a most exemplary student, and I would encourage you to continue your extracurricular research. The strength of the Shield Charm varies in proportion to the power harnessed by the caster. Exert your will and determination, and channel as much power as possible for an improved effect. Some spells that books claim will easily penetrate a Shield Charm are able to be blocked by a more magically powerful caster. Conversely, a puissant caster can penetrate even a strong Shield Charm with a theoretically weak spell. It is cast on an area, not an individual, though its point of origin is the caster, so it may be employed to protect others adjacent to you – though it would be hoped they would not be so weak as to be unable to exert themselves to cast their own defensive spells. One should not chose the weak and incompetent as allies, but those strong enough to stand with you in a time of need._

_The Killing Curse is impeded only by physical barriers, not magical ones, so theoretically no variation on the Shield Charm (of which there are already a few) should succeed as a defence. If you should perchance find any notes on your mother’s hypothetical research in your vault, I would be most pleased to act, with the utmost discretion, as a sounding board for any further discussion of your theories._

_Owls directed to carry your missives to “Slytherin, England” should reach me, provided they are competent at their duties (do not choose a weak or stupid owl for such a vague direction – if in doubt you are welcome to instruct the owl I have sent with my own correspondence to wait for your response)._

_With my best wishes for your future endeavours,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Always Slytherin_

It was nice of him to answer Harry’s questions rather than just complain that he should ask Professor Flitwick. And volunteering to be a sounding board was a kind thought. Certainly a man on the run from the authorities would have low motivation to be promulgating magical theories or gossip in a newspaper for the world to read, in any case. Who would he tell? At most, he’d no doubt love the information to hoard as a potent defence to add to his own capabilities, should Harry find out something truly useful.

Harry asked Neville for some advice on formal letter writing, including how to finish off a letter; Neville recommended the valedictions “Yours sincerely” or “Yours faithfully” as generally suitable, or their expanded versions, “I am yours sincerely” or “I remain, Sir, your faithful and obedient servant”, when being especially courteous to an older, traditionally minded person whom you were trying to impress.

“I know you’re not wearing your Heir ring, Harry. Though I think you should. Gran won’t give me mine yet – she says I’d just lose it. Perhaps you didn’t know, but those kind of rings are good for pressing your family House crest into the sealing wax on your letter,” Neville advised.

Harry thought about that, but decided that since Quirrell was trying to be relatively anonymous with his correspondence, stamping his letter with the Potter crest might be a tad indiscreet. He decided to stick with “Yours sincerely” to finish off his letters as it felt most familiar and seemed acceptable enough as an option.

He wrote a quick letter to Quirrell discussing how he couldn’t access his family vault to look at notes until he was seventeen, and asking if Quirrell had any advice on further books to read about the Old Ways, as he wanted to learn more about Lugnasadh, which Bagshot’s book didn’t cover in much detail.

That week Neville joined him, Millicent, and Daphne in a couple of sessions practising casting charms. Everyone seemed to get on well together, which was a relief. Daphne’s trouble with the Shrinking Charm seemed to be a matter of focus and motivation – her incantation and wand motion seemed fine, but the transformation took forever. Harry talked her through using a visualisation; mentally pretending that someone was coming and that she desperately needed to shrink and hide an object in her pocket before they caught her.

“Now you’ve got it,” he grinned, as with a new record time she shrank a page of parchment with “Secret Plans” scrawled on it.

Daphne looked pleased. “Thanks, Harry.”

Neville didn’t actually need to practise that much – he was doing well in Charms at the moment, so he worked with Harry on the focusing exercise Flitwick had given Harry where you alternated between increasing and decreasing the strength of the Lumos charm.

***

When Professor McGonagall collected names of those staying for the holidays Harry didn’t put his name down, but Ron and Hermione did; they’d heard from Harry that Malfoy was staying at Hogwarts, which struck them as suspicious proof of Malfoy’s guilt. Judging by the explosion Ron managed to cause in Potions with a firework in Malfoy and Goyle’s cauldron (Malfoy got a nose like a balloon from the splattered Swelling Solution), the two were forging ahead with the plan to filch Snape’s ingredients; Hermione looked far too pleased with herself. Snape glared at everyone suspiciously and threatened expulsion, but no-one was accused or caught.

Near the end of term, a Duelling Club was announced, to great excitement. Harry had high hopes of it; gossip said that Professor Flitwick was a former duelling champion. They went to the session for first and second years at 8 o’clock in the evening to find Professor Lockhart was running it, dressed in resplendent but impractical-looking robes of deep plum. It was a disappointment. Hermione might still have been a fan of Lockhart, but as Harry hadn’t learnt a single useful spell off the man in any of his classes yet his hopes were quite dashed. Oh, he liked him quite well on a personal level, but as a Defence teacher his skills were sorely lacking. And Professor Snape was assisting him, which also boded ill for the quality of teaching.

After an amusing demonstration of the Disarming Charm by the teachers they were paired up with someone from another house. Ron was matched with a first year lad from Ravenclaw, Harry was with Theo, Neville with a first year Hufflepuff girl, and Hermione was assigned to partner Millicent. Pansy and Daphne were too far away from where he was standing to see who they were paired with.

Harry and Theo each took a turn casting Expelliarmus, while the other obligingly stood still waiting to be disarmed. Nott went first, and sent Harry’s wand flying with a textbook cast of the spell. Then it was Harry’s turn.

“Well, that was very civilized, but irrefutably dull,” said Nott with a drawl, after his wand flew from his own hand to clatter on the floor. “Shall we liven things up a little with an expanded spell list for another duel?” He picked his wand up again and checked it for damage, thankfully finding none.

“Nothing forbidden or permanently damaging. In fact, shall we say first and second year spells only?” suggested Harry.

“Your terms seem quite reasonable. Agreed.”

They bowed formally to each other again, with a swish of wands in front of their chests, and soon were casting spells (and dodging them) with great enthusiasm. It was more fun than Harry had ever had in any Defence class to date! Pity it had nothing to do with any official instruction.

Across the hall, Millicent and Hermione were wrestling. Hermione had snatched Millicent’s wand out of her hand when her first try at Expelliarmus had failed (trying to copy Lockhart’s wand motions probably hadn’t helped) and Millicent had laughed at her.

Neville was gamely trying to show his partner how to cast Expelliarmus despite not having mastered it properly himself yet. And Ron was showing his partner how to cast a Bat Bogey Hex on unsuspecting duellists in other pairs.

After a while the teachers noticed the increasingly chaotic duels, and called a halt, switching to a demonstration pair. Snape suggested Malfoy and Weasley, with a twisted smile to Lockhart, who gamely (and overly trustingly) agreed.

Of course, Lockhart’s pathetic attempt at demonstrating a Shield Spell was useless to Ron, and the two rapidly escalated their duel with the nastiest hexes and curses they probably knew. And then, Malfoy summoned a snake. It hissed angrily at Ron.

“ _Bite!_ ” it said, and Harry wondered if he or someone else should do something, but then Lockhart intervened before Snape could. Sadly he only managed to make it angrier and a hair’s breadth away from biting Justin Finch-Fletchley.

“ _Poison! Kill!_ ”

Finch-Fletchley was too far away from Harry for his as-yet small Shield Spell to work, and there was too much of a crowd in the way to cast an offensive spell, so as the snake reared back with fangs exposed ready to strike, Harry did the only thing he could think of. Though he feared it would lead to trouble.

“ _Ssstop! Leave him alone!_ ” Harry hissed loudly, though to him it sounded just like English, not an eerie sibilant language.

The snake slumped to the floor, docile as a coiled up garden hose, eyes fixed on Harry. Harry smiled hopefully at Justin, but he didn’t look grateful, or even puzzled. He looked angry… and scared.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” he shouted, and stormed out of the hall before Harry could say anything.

Snape vanished the snake, and gave Harry a shrewd and calculating look; Harry didn’t like it. Or the muttering around the hall. It wasn’t all against him, though. He heard a snippet of Pansy’s distinctively shrill tones.

“…my cousin, you know,” she said, with a note of pride. She caught him looking in her direction, and gave him an impressed smile and a nod of her head. Daphne was next to her, and bobbed a discreet curtsey at him. Malfoy, on display in the middle of the crowd, looked impassively blank by the time Harry glanced in his direction, and Ron looked gobsmacked. And maybe a bit afraid.

Neville, Ron and Hermione hurried him out of the hall to the Gryffindor common room as soon as they could, looking supportively worried, and hit him with their questions as soon as they had a bit of privacy.

“You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?” demanded Ron, who still looked shaken.

“Well… it seems to have a bad reputation in wizarding society,” said Harry defensively. “I didn’t want people to judge me. It’s not like I can help it. I’m sure there’s plenty of people who can do it, who just stay quiet about it.”

“No, it’s really rare,” said Ron. “Harry, this is bad.”

“But maybe since people heard me use it to tell the snake to leave Justin alone, they’ll come around,” said Harry, with desperate optimism. “I mean, I saved him! That’s brave, and Gryffindor-like?”

“All we heard was hissing, Harry,” Neville said quietly.

“Really? Are you sure you were close enough? I was speaking English, it’s just that the snakes understand you.”

“No, it was definitely a weird kind of hissing language. I thought you were egging the snake on,” said Ron. “It was dead creepy, you know.”

Harry gaped at him. “You thought… I’d do that?”

Ron looked shifty. “Just for a second, maybe.”

“People are going to think you’re the Heir now,” said Hermione, speaking in a hushed voice. “I’m worried for you, Harry. Salazar Slytherin was famous for speaking to snakes.”

“I guess they’ll think that,” sighed Harry. “At least _you_ guys know I’m not his many-times great-grandson, right?”

“Of course you’re not, Harry!” said Neville supportively.

Hermione looked thoughtful. “Well, he lived a thousand years ago. For all we know, you could be. Statistically it’s even likely, given how pure-bloods are about blood purity and not marrying out. Obviously it doesn’t make you evil or anything ridiculous like that. Just like having magic doesn’t make you evil either. It’s just a talent.” She smiled encouragingly at him.

Ron didn’t say anything more at all. He just eyed Harry suspiciously.

***

Harry tried to find Justin the next day to apologise, but his plans to catch him in Herbology were thwarted by a snowstorm that cancelled the class. With Hermione’s encouragement he ventured out to find him in the library instead.

He overheard some Hufflepuffs gossiping about how they’d advised Justin to hide up in the dormitory since Harry had obviously marked him for attack after letting slip he was down for Eton. Harry lurked in the shadow of a bookshelf and eavesdropped some more; Hannah Abbott, Lily Moon, and Ernie Macmillan were there, as well as some others he didn’t know by name.

Lily seemed sure he was the Heir, and suggested maybe the reason the Dark Lord attacked him was because he’d recognised Harry’s potential to grow up to be a rival Dark Lord himself.

Ernie seemed unsure, but did comment on how so far only Potter’s enemies had been petrified, which seemed very suspicious.

Hannah seemed inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt, but was growing more anxious the more the others talked.

“There have been a lot of Dark wizards and witches in the Black family you know, and Potter has been researching his links with that family,” Lily muttered warningly. “Who knows what secrets about the Chamber he’s unearthed, or what books of Dark magic? For some,” she said, with a meaningful glance at Ernie, “what starts innocently can lead to dreadful things. Blood sacrifices and stuff like that.”

Harry couldn’t take it anymore and stepped out to confront them, but hearing he was looking for Justin failed to reassure them. He tried to tell them how he was ordering the snake _not_ to attack, but no-one seemed to believe him. He was just about to storm off when Pansy stopped by.

“Harry, cousin!” she said, delightedly. “I had a free class too, so when I heard Herbology was cancelled I thought I’d come and find you. I thought you might need a friendly face.”

“Trust a Slytherin to be buddies with the Heir,” muttered someone.

“Well, _I’ve_ certainly got nothing to worry about,” she said, smugly, linking her arm around Harry’s.

“I thought you had History of Magic this morning?” he whispered.

“Like I said – a free period,” she whispered back, conspiratorially. “Tracey takes notes for us all.”

“Well, _I’m_ not going near him.” There was a murmuring of agreement, and Harry felt a bit sick to his stomach.

“I might remind you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood’s as pure as anyone’s…” said Ernie nervously.

Pansy snickered at him.

“Do you think I’m the Heir of Slytherin, Pansy?” asked Harry seriously.

“If he _is_ , you can’t _really_ trust him,” warned Hannah, anxiously. “It might be safer…” she trailed off, chewing at her lip.

Harry looked worriedly at Pansy, but she just snorted and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, turning to face the crowd. “If he _is_ the Heir, then the safest place to be is as a _loyal_ friend at his side. And if he’s not, then being his friend is no risk at all and he’ll appreciate the support!”

She turned to Harry. “Honestly, you have to spell everything out for Hufflepuffs. House of the ‘loyal’ indeed. They’re definitely not the house of the smart, cunning or brave, that’s manifestly obvious.” She turned and sneered at them all.

“Thanks, Pansy. I think.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re the Heir.”

“Thanks,” he smiled gratefully.

“Unless you _are_ the Heir, in which case, my belief in you is unwavering, and just not something I want to talk about publicly.” She grinned at him. “Hypothetically.”

“Covering all the options, aren’t you?” Harry didn’t even know what she really believed; she’d sounded pretty sincere both times.

“Well, you _are_ a Parselmouth!”

The Hufflepuffs seemed quiet and thoughtful as they listened to their interchange.

“Can I carry your bag to your next class for you, Potter?” offered Abbott, when there was a pause in their conversation.

“Do you need help with your homework?” said another, and they started pressing in around him.

“You know I didn’t mean any offence with my comments,” said Lily worriedly. “It was just idle speculation.”

“You know I’ve always liked you, Harry. I think of you as a friend. A very good friend,” said a third Hufflepuff earnestly, whose name Harry didn’t even know.

“We’ve been friends for _ages_ , right Harry?” said Ernie anxiously.

Pansy seemed vastly amused at Harry’s new plight. He looked at her pleadingly and whispered a request for help, but she only egged them on.

“Well, you _say_ you’re a friend, but I don’t know what you’ve done for him to demonstrate that. I wonder if you’ve even bought him a gift for Yule?” she hinted heavily.

“Pansy!” Harry gasped disbelievingly.

“Oh, I have! It’s a great gift, err... I just haven’t wrapped it yet.”

“Mine’s better!”

“You wouldn’t attack a _friend_ would you, Harry? I _can_ call you Harry, can’t I?”

It took ages to reassure them that even if, hypothetically, he was the Heir of Slytherin, that he wouldn’t attack anyone just because they didn’t give him something for Yule. They seemed to find that far more calming than his assertions that he _wasn’t_ the Heir. Pansy was subtly undermining _those_ attempts with meaningful looks and comments about how no-one was _saying_ he was, and he didn’t need to worry – they all supported him.

Eventually he got so frustrated he stomped off on his own. It was almost time for Transfiguration, and he had to get his books. He was halfway down a particularly dark corridor (the torches having blown out) when he tripped headlong over something lying on the floor.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was petrified on the floor, and Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, was floating immobilised in the air, looking uncharacteristically black and smoky.

Harry’s heart beat wildly as he looked around in a panic – would something attack him too? Would people assume he’d done it if they saw him here? He sprinted down the corridor away from the scene of the crime but ran literally right through Peeves, who raised the alarm, sending students and teachers crashing out into the hall. There was chaos for a moment, and Harry was pinned against the wall by the crush of students. As Professor McGonagall restored order by sending students back into their classes, a few lingered to watch. Ernie stared at him, white-faced and nervous.

“It wasn’t me,” Harry said loudly, in his direction, speaking up to drown out Peeve’s delighted mocking rhyme. “I just came down the corridor, and they were already like this.”

“Of course it wasn’t him,” said a student’s voice smoothly behind him. Harry turned, to see Draco Malfoy smiling innocently. Draco turned to face Professor McGonagall.

“I saw him, Professor. He came down the corridor in the opposite direction to me, and I saw him stop. He looked really startled. He just stumbled across them, like he said.”

Harry looked at Draco confusedly. He hadn’t seen _him_ at all. Mind you, it had been a very _dark_ corridor.

As Professor McGonagall and the other teachers dealt with Peeves and organised Justin and Nick to be moved to the hospital wing, Harry had a _very_ quiet word with Draco.

“I didn’t see you in the corridor…” Harry whispered.

“But it’s plausible I _might_ have been there to witness your arrival,” said Draco softly, sounding cautiously polite.

“You’re… trying to cover for me?”

“I owed you a favour of silence, from last year. Consider that debt repaid.”

“But I really am innocent! I just came along and found Justin like that – I tripped over him in fact!” he whispered intensely.

“Really? So you know absolutely _nothing_ about whatever attacked the Squib’s cat, and those students you disliked?”

Harry hesitated a moment – he really didn’t want to tell Draco he was hearing voices. “Look, yes they were annoying, but I didn’t attack them - I don’t know what did it, or how. I have a credible witness who can attest to my innocence for the first incident, and I was in the infirmary for the second.”

“Yes, well done.” Unfortunately for him, Draco had noticed his slight hesitation and was now smiling smugly as he congratulated Harry, assuming Harry had arranged his alibis well. “And I’ll vouch for you for this one.”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Of course not, and I shall be sure to attest to that to anyone who enquires,” said Draco, leaving him with a polite nod of his head (dipping low as to one superior in rank) and heading swiftly off to class as McGonagall approached.

 _What an infuriating boy_ , thought Harry. Didn’t _anyone_ believe in his innocence? Only Hermione and Neville seemed to be offering their whole-hearted support so far.

As McGonagall marched him up to Dumbledore’s office and left him there alone, it didn’t feel like she had much faith in him either.

 


	13. Heir and Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has an interesting discussion in the Headmaster's office, and people help him out some more with his problem of being suspected of being the Heir of Slytherin - in their own special ways.

**_December, 1992_ **

Dumbledore’s office was an amazing room full of whirring silver instruments and mysterious books and artifacts, but what caught Harry’s attention on his visit were the portraits. He read a few of the labels – they were all Headmasters of Hogwarts. And one interested him in particular, a man in silver and green robes with shoulder-length dark hair – Phineas Nigellus Black, 1847-1925. He tapped on the bottom of the frame briefly, which Neville had told him was a polite way to get a portrait’s attention if they were sleeping or absent.

“What? Who?” the dark-bearded man in the portrait said, jerking awake from his doze in a chair and yawning as he stretched.

“Pardon me, sir. I wished to converse with you, privately if possible,” said Harry quietly and respectfully.

“And who might you be, young student? This office is supposed to be barred to all but the rightful Headmaster,” he responded quietly, letting the other portraits keep on dozing.

“Yes sir. He’ll be joining me here shortly I’m sure – my Head of House brought me here.”

“In trouble, eh?”

“Yes. No. They’re wondering if I’m the Heir of Slytherin. But I’m not. I think. I certainly haven’t been attacking people, which is what some students are thinking. So I was wondering if I could ask you a question, about our family.”

“ _Our_ family?”

“Yes sir. I’m pretty sure we’re related. Dorea Black was my grandmother, and I’m pretty sure you’re her grandfather.”

“Oh, a Black, are you? I thought you were that young Harry Potter,” he said, sounding very interested suddenly.

“I am. Both, that is. Well, I’m not a Black, I mean. But related to the Blacks. And I am Harry Potter.” Harry winced. He hadn’t phrased that at all well. Pansy would be appalled.

“Acknowledged by the Black family as a member? Did Arcturus or Cassiopeia meet you before they passed away? There’s only young Sirius left to be Head now they’ve gone to the Elysian Fields, and he’s in Azkaban.”

“Not acknowledged – I don’t think I’ve met either of those people, sir. So I guess I’m not acknowledged, unless Sirius did it when I was a baby – he _is_ my regent apparently. So I don’t know if there’s a formal recognition of cousinship. Sorry, sir. I just meant… I’m a descendant. And I’d be proud to count you as a relation – my great-great-grandfather.”

The old Headmaster nodded grandly in acknowledgment of the compliment. “Heir of Slytherin, you say?” he asked with a sly grin.

“Others say that,” said Harry, “but I’m not sure. I wanted to ask a couple of things, and I guess I’d better hurry up before the Headmaster arrives – are there any speakers of Parseltongue in the Black family? Because I’m a Parselmouth, and I’m wondering if I get it from your family line; I thought maybe it’s not such an unusual talent after all, it’s just that no-one talks about it much outside the family?”

The wizard sat back and toyed with his pointed beard thoughtfully. “Interesting, very interesting, young master Potter. I don’t recall anyone with that talent, but then, we portraits don’t retain _all_ the memories of our living counterparts. It’s possible such information was omitted in the process of my creation on purpose.”

There was a coughing noise like an animal choking in the background, and the portrait immediately fell asleep. Or more likely, pretended to. Harry spun around just in time to see what looked like a half-plucked red turkey on a perch burst into flames.

Luckily for him, when Dumbledore entered a moment later he reassured Harry that it was his pet phoenix Fawkes, and by no means was Harry demonstrating accidental magic in killing his pet. Which was a great relief to him.

Harry asked if the petrified students were going to be moved to St. Mungo’s any time soon, and was assured they were being cared for quite adequately where they were.

“Do you know who’s behind the attacks, sir?” asked Harry, looking at the pile of phoenix ash curiously, and knowing quite well from his eavesdropping that Dumbledore _knew_ who was behind them.

“Alas, I know nothing that can help solve this mystery,” sighed Dumbledore. “Do you know anything at all that could help us, my boy?”

“Alas, no,” echoed Harry. Horrid old man. Why should Harry share information about the whispers, when Dumbledore would do nothing in response anyway (except possibly turn on him)?

Harry left briefly afterwards with Dumbledore’s reassurances that he didn’t think Harry was responsible for the attacks, and after Harry assured the Headmaster again that he didn’t have anything to share.

“Remember Harry,” concluded Dumbledore gravely, catching Harry’s eye before he left, “that if you’re ever in trouble here at Hogwarts, you just need to call on me and I will do whatever I can to aid you.”

***

With people watching him all the time, it took a few days for the Slytherins to get to meet with Harry on their own, but eventually they managed it.

“Draco sends his apologies that he can’t join us, by the way,” said Daphne. “He hopes you’re not offended?”

“Of course not. You’re my friends, Draco and I are just acquaintances as yet.”

“You know we’re all behind you, right?” asked Millicent.

“Well, I guessed. You’re all smiles and polite greetings when you see me in the corridors rather than scampering the other way, or trying to make me trip and fall with jinxes, like some are.”

“Now, Harry, I’ve been dying to know. Are there any other incredibly rare talents you forgot to tell us about, cousin?” asked Pansy, in an overly saccharine tone.

Harry hesitated. Changing his hair probably didn’t count. It really _was_ more likely that was due to accidental magic, than being a Metamorphmagus. “No, nothing.”

Pansy looked satisfied, but Daphne was staring at him. “There _is_ something else!” she said, flabbergasted.

“No, really, I’m quite an ordinary wizard,” said Harry desperately.

“Apart from being a Parselmouth,” said Daphne.

“Well, yes, apart from that. I’m sure it’s really very ordinary. Probably lots of wizards and witches are too, but just don’t want to admit it because of Parseltongue’s bad reputation.” The girls looked sceptical.

“And apart from surviving the killing curse,” added Millicent.

“I really doubt that was due to anything _I_ did! I was a baby!”

“And apart from this other thing you’re not sharing with us,” prompted Daphne.

“Well… no. That’s nothing, really. Just accidental magic, nothing special.”

“Will you tell us what you did? Since it’s nothing special or important?”

Harry tried to think of something else to give them. They were bloodhounds on the scent and he had a feeling that they wouldn’t leave until they got an answer.

“There was this one time when I was young - I somehow ended up on my school’s roof,” he volunteered. Apparition was a common thing for wizards and could be performed wandlessly – that should be safe. Impressive enough to keep secret, but not too exciting.

“You Flew?” asked Pansy, impressed.

“No, I Apparated, I think. By accident.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “You don’t have the gift of Flight, then. But Apparition’s still pretty impressive. How old were you, nine, ten?”

“I’m not sure. It was years ago. I might have been five or six, maybe?”

The girls seemed satisfied that they’d ferreted out his secret – impressively early wandless Apparition. But later, Millicent approached him in private.

“I’m calling in my favour, Harry,” she said seriously. “You know, the one you owe me for not dobbing about your History of Magic exam results to anyone.”

“Oh, that,” said Harry glumly. “What do you want?”

“Don’t be like that Harry, it’s not that bad. I just want information. So tell me the truth – what other talent do you _really_ have?”

Harry sighed. He thought about lying, but that didn’t seem fair. He did owe her.

“I’m not _sure_ , mind you,” he said, after looking around to make sure there were no portraits nearby, “but I think it’s possible I might be a Metamorphmagus.”

“Oooh!” said a delighted Millicent. “The Black family talent!”

“Is it really?” said Harry, perking up a little. “So it’s not… freakish for wizards?”

“It’s really rare Harry, but some of the Ancient families have talents running in their lines. Like Parseltongue for Slytherin. The Black family is supposed to have Metamorphmagi in their family line.”

“And I’m a Black, through my grandmother!” said Harry. “So it’s not bad?”

“Bad? How can having Ancient magical powers be bad?” asked Millicent, bewildered.

“Have you _heard_ how people are acting about me being a Parseltongue?”

“A valid point,” she conceded. “But this talent is not looked as down upon like Parseltongue is; it is more neutral in nature. So what makes you think you might be a Metamorphmagus?”

“Well, my hair used to be really messy. I mean, _always_ , no matter how much you brushed it. And one time when it was cut, badly, it grew back overnight. I really wished it would behave and it’s been tidy ever since. Like magic. I used to think it was the shampoo, but since I’ve learnt about magic being real, well… that seems kind of ridiculous now.”

Millicent tried to persuade him to try changing his hair then and there, but Harry refused. “I don’t want to go to the teachers if I get stuck. They’re already treating me differently enough. And it was probably just accidental magic anyway.”

Millicent reached over to ruffle his hair and seemed disappointed that it didn’t instantly magically tidy itself.

“Hey!” said Harry, smoothing it down again with his hands. He liked it tidy and covering his scar.

“Sorry. I guess that wasn’t very polite, but I really wanted to know. You said it stayed tidy!”

“And look, it is!” he said, gesturing to his head.

“That’s just what hair does normally.”

“Exactly! But it didn’t used to. It never stayed put when I smoothed it down. It completely changed.”

“Harry?” she said, sounding more hesitant, with a wary look in her eye. “Just one more question?”

He sighed. He’d seen that look dozens of times over the past couple of days. “No Millicent, I’m not the Heir of Slytherin, and I’m not petrifying people.”

“You read my mind?!” she gasped.

“Nah, I’ve just been asked that a lot lately,” he grinned at her. “I know that look.” She stuck her tongue out at him crossly, and then giggled.

“Look Millicent, if I’m related to Slytherin it’s news to me. He’d have to be buried waaay back in the family tree. You never know, it could even be via the Evans family. I bet _loads_ of people are Parselmouths, and just don’t admit it because they don’t want the bad reputation. It’s probably not as rare as everyone thinks. And I promise,” he said, looking very serious, “I’m not petrifying or attacking anyone.”

“ _Or_ getting someone or something else to do it for you?”

“People usually aren’t that thorough when they ask,” he said, tilting his head at her. “But no, I’m not doing that either, I swear. I think I’ve heard the mysterious monster moving about, but I’m not controlling it.”

“Really? Can I tell the others that?”

“Oh, please do. The more people who stop treating me like a junior Dark Lord the better.”

Millicent looked very smug and pleased with herself. Which prompted him to think a bit harder about what he’d just implicitly promised. Had he said more than he should, somehow?

“But please keep the Metamorphmagus thing to yourself for now,” he added.

Millicent looked a tiny bit less smug. “For now,” she conceded.

“I suppose that will have to do,” he sighed. “Give me a bit of warning first if you change your mind, so I have a chance to break the news to a few people myself.”

“Agreed.” She hesitated a moment, “One more question?”

“With no obligation to answer. Unless you want to owe me a favour?”

“I shall ask my question and see how it fares first.” She took a breath, and hesitantly whispered, “Why _did_ you only want an ‘Acceptable’ for History of Magic? What was the point of risking getting caught cheating for such a paltry grade you could achieve on your own merits?”

“I didn’t want to risk getting a Dreadful, or an Exceeds Expectations for that matter. I wanted an Acceptable, and I didn’t want to waste too much time studying. I’ve got plenty of other subjects to work on that need my attention more. I don’t mind studying history, but Binns is so tiring!”

“But _why_?”

“I just want an average grade, at least for now. Grades don’t matter before OWL year, as no study we do before that counts towards our final grade. I just want to seem normal.”

“I am not sure you will ever be seen as a normal wizard now, Harry. I would venture you never truly were.”

Harry sighed. “I can still try.”

He thought for a moment about the complicated nature of friendships with Slytherins. “And you owe me a small favour for that painful truth. To be kept to yourself.”

“Alright. One short soul baring chat at a later date,” she conceded.

“Done.”

***

“Bow before the Heir of Slytherin, peasants!” shouted one of the ginger-haired menaces flanking Harry.

Harry sighed. He appreciated that he had another couple of supporters who believed in his innocence, thinking it was all rather hilarious, but Fred and George really weren’t helping as much as they thought they were. If helping was what they were even trying to do. Two students bowed nervously in his direction before scurrying away quickly. Fred and George high-fived each other.

“How many is that now?”

“Twelve students so far today.”

“Bet you a knut we can get it to fifteen before we reach the Great Hall.”

“Would you _please_ cut it out!” said Harry with increasing exasperation.

“Bet _you_ a knut we make him crack and he unleashes forbidden Dark magic upon us in retribution before we get there.”

“Deal,” they said in chorus, and shook hands with each other.

“Make way for the Heir of Slytherin! Seriously evil wizard coming through!” they shouted, marching ahead of him down the corridor.

Harry sighed to himself. “They were really annoying!” probably wouldn’t cut it as an excuse for using the Imperius Curse. At least the twins believed him, which was more than he thought their younger brother did. Ron was so quiet around him these days. Even though he never _said_ anything Harry could practically feel his doubt.

***

Harry thought it would be nice to be home again for Christmas, and away from suspicious glances and just-as-irritating falsely cheerful attempts at friendships. The Hufflepuff students’ tendency to try to be overly friendly had spread to the logical Ravenclaws. The Gryffindors were split between backing one of their own, and watching him suspiciously. The Slytherins were almost uniformly polite. Some of them bowed to him (bringing up the Weasley twins’ count nicely) and if they ever encountered him alone in a corridor they were sure to “casually” either mention either their blood heritage, or ramble oddly about what subjects they were impressively good at or how rich their family was. Harry thought they might be trying to impress him with their potential usefulness to a young Dark Lord. Harry hated to think what the person _really_ behind the attacks thought of it all. He’d had a few anonymous owls from students saying things along the lines of, “I’m watching you, Parselmouth!” He was often ready to cast a defensive spell at a moment’s notice; not realising that his battle-ready twitchiness was giving people an odd impression of his demeanour and making matters worse.

This year, Harry had a _massive_ pile of Yule gifts. He’d berated Pansy for encouraging the rumour that giving him a gift would ensure you wouldn’t be petrified, but she just sniffed and told him off for his ingratitude and ungraciousness. She was _helping_. Weren’t they _family_?

Hermione was very pleased to listen to him complain about Pansy for a change, but was reasonably gracious in victory.

“Well, currying favour with the rich and powerful is a traditional part of wizarding society,” she said. “It’s not nice, but there you have it. It’s an oligarchy, with the trappings of democracy. Change will only come slowly.”

“I’m not sure what some of that means, but I can explain about currying favour,” volunteered Neville. “Some families are patrons of others, so the lesser family is expected to provide social support and what favours they can, in return for the magical protection and financial support offered by the more prosperous and powerful family. It’s a very old tradition.”

“Sometimes I really wonder why you want to stay here, Hermione?” mused Harry.

“And miss out on learning magic?!” she said, aghast.

“I mean _after_ Hogwarts.”

“Oh. Well, society can change. But nothing changes without people to _make_ things change. People working together. Like we are starting to – with house-elves!” she said optimistically.

“I think I know now why you’re in Gryffindor, despite your inner raven,” said Harry teasingly.

“Be careful with your thank you letters,” advised Neville. “A patron-client relationship doesn’t happen instantly, it builds over time. You’ll want to keep track of who’s currying your favour on an ongoing basis, and who’s just being scared and polite with a token gift or one-off letter.”

“Pansy gave me a template for thank you letters…” Harry said uncertainly.

Neville sighed, and insisted on seeing it. He made a lot of corrections to it before giving it back. “That was perfect how it was – if you wanted to hint that you’re the Heir and want more gifts and favours, without saying so outright. My corrections make it say the opposite, basically.”

“It seemed harmless enough, thanking people for their gifts and saying how I’m just an ordinary student and can’t protect anyone…”

“It’s all in the implications,” said Neville, apologetically. “Like this bit, ‘…as far as my limited talents allow I hope I can assist in the protection of other students at the school, but I am not so arrogant as to assume I can rein in the mysterious creature plaguing Hogwarts and save everyone.’ You see? It’s subtly hinting at your _talent_ as a Parseltongue or maybe in magic, and that your ability to protect students from the monster may be limited to a _few_ , not _everyone_. And that maybe you’re the one controlling it, since you could possibly rein it in to a limited extent.”

“I didn’t get that at _all_ ,” sighed Harry. “It seemed innocuous.”

“It sounds alright to me too,” agreed Hermione.

“But some students will take it differently,” Neville insisted.

“She might mean well but she’s so pushy sometimes - she always thinks she knows best. I _told_ her I didn’t want people giving me gifts but she didn’t listen,” whined Harry.

“You need to stop relying on her so much for advice on wizarding culture,” chided Hermione. “Neville and Ron know quite a lot too, you know. Even I read up on it, now. It’s not all bad; the attitude to women’s rights has historically been _centuries_ ahead of its time, and cultural tolerance for other species is much better than you might expect.”

“I don’t have _time_ to read for fun so much these days,” Harry said defensively. “All my spare time is going on studying normal subjects. Asking friends for advice is easier and quicker. But I will ask you guys more, alright?”

“We’re here for you when you need us, Harry,” Neville said, and Hermione nodded her agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all my reviewers last chapter! Only about 1-2% of my readers leave reviews on any given chapter, and you’re all very precious to me and appreciated. So special thanks this week to: rogueofstorms, Lairenna, Slytherinb*h, Arvi, WinifredS, TheAzreal, Sigfried, Crystal M. Key, Guest (sorry, your name’s a mystery!), mwinter1 (yes, even tiny reviews are loved!), WhatWouldJackSparrowDo, and LokiFirefox.
> 
> Thank you also to all those who add my story (or me as an author) to their favourites list, follow it for updates, and/or leave kudos (depending on which site you’re reading this story). I appreciate that too! :)
> 
> Guest wrote (among other awesome comments): “Slowly realizing the Dursleys aren't actually normal is more realistic and interesting than Harry completely changing his world view in one dramatic moment.”
> 
> Thank you! This is exactly what I’m aiming for in that area of the story. Personality change rarely comes in one defining moment. It’s a gradual process over time. Children who sadly suffer from abusive households and/or bullying growing up are usually still dealing with the fallout from that *decades* later (Exhibit A – Professor Snape). Compared to real life, I’m just *zooming* along.


	14. Potter Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home for Yule! Harry visits the ruins of Potter Manor.

**_December, 1992_ **

Harry was going home again for Christmas, and was planning on meeting the Dursleys in the parking lot so they wouldn’t have to tolerate running into any wizards, or “your kind” as they called them, hating any mention of magic. He’d been hoping to invite Hermione to visit him at the Dursleys, but she was staying with Ron at Hogwarts for the holidays; no doubt to enact the Polyjuice plan he overheard them conspiring about occasionally.

“Malfoy’s not going to say _anything_ useful, you know,” he’d warned.

“He will if he’s talking to his most trusted friends,” insisted Ron stubbornly.

“He’s not the Heir, Ron,” sighed Harry, but Ron just shrugged dismissively. “Well, remember to keep an eye on the time. You don’t want to be caught out in the Snake’s Den turning back to your normal self and end up losing a million points from Gryffindor. Take a second swig of potion before your time’s up if you’re down there for more than an hour.”

“The Snake’s Den? That’s their name for the Slytherin dorm, huh?”

Harry nodded.

“Cool, good tips. Thanks for the help.”

“I’m not… Forget it.”

***

Harry’s trip home was uneventful, and Dudley seemed pleased to see him again. And when Dudley was happy, his parents were too. So it boded well for the holidays. Uncle Vernon asked about his progress in uncovering the wizard who’d tried to ruin his dinner party, and Harry had to admit he hadn’t discovered who it was, which made Uncle Vernon scowl. He did seem interested in Harry’s story about how the elf had tried to kill him with an “enchanted piece of sports equipment like a flying bowling ball”, and let Harry know that if the creature came around again, Harry was to deal with it.

Dudley was willing to keep on with their deal of ensuring a reduction in Harry’s chores in exchange for homework and study help, and covered for Harry when he nipped off for a day on “wizard business” to visit Gringotts to bank most of his parents’ possessions in his personal vault (he kept some of the books out, and a couple of assorted items like his dad’s scarf).

Visiting his vault was the easy part. The thing that took the most time for that visit was his careful conversation with Griphook. He needed to make sure that his trust vault wouldn’t allow other people to withdraw possessions he placed in there, and that no new bank fees would apply. In the end, Harry agreed to a small yearly charge from his trust vault to have both his vaults inspected yearly to make sure there were no magical or mundane pests doing things like chewing up the tapestries or rotting the wood. Should treatment be required they would negotiate fees at that point. Griphook assured him that no-one (apart from Neville) would be able to visit his personal vault to withdraw his parents’ possessions. He also made sure his yearly statements would be mailed out in future, now that the owl ward was sorted out. After a little arguing he agreed to a one-off two sickle processing fee for that change, simply because he didn’t want to waste the time bickering over it any longer. He did worry it would set a bad precedent, but at least he’d haggled it down significantly from the initial two galleons.

He also asked for copies of his parents’ wills, and a list of which bequests had already been distributed, which Griphook eventually (after some slurs on his competency) conceded he’d be able to do. For a fee. Harry wasn’t sure he’d done a good job negotiating it given Griphook’s toothy grin, but he _tried_. For a galleon he would get a letter noting distribution of bequests, and two galleons for copies of the wills owled out to him. Eventually. He didn’t want to pay any extra for “priority processing” so allegedly copies would have to be written out by hand.

After a break for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron Harry got on with the more interesting part of his planned outing, and hailed the nauseating Knight Bus once more. He was headed for Potter Manor. 

“Blimey! Fancy us ‘avin ‘Arry Potter on the Knight Bus, Ern!” said the young purple-uniformed conductor (not for the first time that trip). He hefted Harry’s magically light trunk onto the pavement.

Harry had decided to bring his trunk along just in case the grounds of Potter Manor had anything worth salvaging. He’d tried to say he’d look after his own trunk, but Stan Shunpike had insisted it was “all part o’ the service.”

“Tha’ll be a tale worth the tellin’ later, won’t it, Ern? ‘Ow we ‘elped ‘Arry Potter visit ‘is old family ‘ome!” Harry winced.

“I’d greatly appreciate it if you wouldn’t gossip about it to any reporters,” he said optimistically.

“Oh, no, Mr. Potter,” said Stan. “Jus’ t’ friends, eh?”

Harry sighed and waved politely back as Stan waved furiously to him as the bus pulled away. He really wished he could Apparate. Or better yet, drive. He’d thought about catching a cab, but couldn’t justify the expense and time of travelling hours north out into the countryside. And he certainly didn’t want to be spotted whizzing about the sky on a broom.

Potter Manor was out in the country in Nottinghamshire, and the bus dropped him off on a paved asphalt road running through some fields and woods. There wasn’t any sign for Potter Manor, nor could he see any ruins, but there was a cobblestone road joining onto the more ordinary asphalt road at right angles that the Muggle traffic seemed to be ignoring. It headed off into a forested area with some large oak trees flanking and overhanging the road on either side, making a shadowed tunnel of interwoven branches. Only dappled sunlight reached the cobblestones through the snow-topped canopy, and Harry thought it looked quite magical without any need for magic at all. In spring no doubt it would look magnificent.

Harry headed off down what he presumed was the driveway to Potter Manor, and the noise of the traffic faded away the instant he set foot on the cobblestone road. It was probably magic. Some distance down the driveway he eventually spied a snow-topped dry stone wall of lichen-covered rough grey stones, which he guessed marked a property boundary of some kind. To either side of the road were the shattered and broken remains of some old wooden double gates, engulfed by a tangle of ivy vines.

As he continued walking through the woods and then a more open area of snow-covered fields (though they appeared rather choked with brambles in places), he reflected that even if there was no house left, the sheer size of the land that formed the property must surely be worth a fortune.

As a light fall of snow started, Harry stopped and got his thickest fur-lined winter cloak out of his trunk, and the soft green scarf Millicent gave him last year that he hardly ever wore (lest people at school mistake him for a Slytherin). He wished he’d remembered to pack some gloves, but he’d forgotten them. The only other thing in there was an emergency snack of a corned beef sandwich he’d made that morning from last night’s leftovers.

He wasn’t expecting much of the manor, and that was just as well. There was nothing but a pile of broken masonry and old charred wood, in a large roughly rectangular area. He wandered carefully through it for a while, trying to imagine what it was like. The broken marble pillars suggested the front of the house had been quite magnificent, and he found more like them in the centre of the devastation. There was almost like a hollow in the middle of the wreckage, and he almost slipped into a pit at one point. There were a few plants growing in the middle of the wreckage too, but it was hard to tell what they were in the middle of winter as many had lost their leaves or were buried under a light coating of snow – he did recognise some rose bushes, though. Those thorns that snagged his cloak were unmistakeable. His best guess was that there used to be some kind of pool or pond in the middle of a courtyard garden, enclosed by the rectangular manor building on all sides. It was a very interesting design; he’d never given a lot of thought to wizarding architecture before. He recalled Professor McGonagall using Latin names for some parts of buildings when he’d chatted to her about statuary last year. He spent a while looking around the rubble of Potter Manor, but if there were once some statues decorating it, it seemed they’d been destroyed in an attack on the building, or the fire that had clearly affected it. He found only broken tiles and shattered stone. Compared to the manor, Potter Cottage was in nigh-perfect condition.

Harry checked his watch – he still had a few hours left so he decided since there was nothing obviously salvageable here he would explore the grounds and see if he could find the Circle that was rumoured to be at the manor somewhere.

It took him almost the full three hours he’d allocated until he found it, but Harry was nothing if not determined. This was his heritage. And since the Circle was clearly not close to the building, it may have survived the Dark Lord or Death Eaters’ destructive attacks.

It was a bit of a disappointment when he found it. He’d been expecting something a bit like Stonehenge, but in better condition; mammoth rectangular blocks of blue-grey stone topped with capstones, in a perfect and impressive ring. Instead, what he eventually found in a small unremarkable clearing in the woods was a circle of rough, grey, lumpy boulders, covered with lichen and snow. Admittedly it had a nice view of a small nearby frost-rimmed lake further down a hill, but that was its only redeeming claim to majesty. Only a few of the stones were tall, but not much more than two metres high. Most were irregular boulders about waist high, and a couple were squat little lumps only as high as his knees. He guessed the Circle was perhaps twenty metres in diameter, so a fairly decent size at least. He counted the stones – twenty-seven, then counted them again just to be sure, and got twenty-five. The third time, he got twenty-six, and a vague feeling like something was going wrong with his counting. Either the snow was making things difficult, or he wasn’t always seeing all of the stones correctly.

There was a bit of a gap between two of the largest stones that felt like an entrance, so he wandered into the middle of the Circle. Old Muggle fairy tales said you should never do that, however, Harry had read in _The Decline of Pagan Magic_ that some wizards and witches used to ward their Circles and the surrounding grounds from interference by Muggles. Most commonly interlopers would either be unable to find the Circle in the first place. Or, if trespassers did manage to break through they would fall prey to a second layer of enchantment that trapped them within the Circle, usually to either dance or to sleep until the caster found and freed them. Some Muggles were known to have died as a result of such wards, so the Ministry had banned them a few centuries ago. A wizard, however, should be perfectly safe even if old wards lingered. Harry certainly felt fine and he found it really rather pleasant to stand inside his family’s Circle. A tiny fairy ventured out from underneath a cluster of snow-covered plants at the base of one of the stones, and let out a curious buzzing chirrup at him.

“Hello beautiful fairy. Are you hungry? I believe you’re omnivorous, yes?” said Harry. “The ones on our Yule tree last year ate just about anything.” He put down and opened up his trunk, glad for what felt like the hundredth time in the past few hours that it had been enchanted to a light weight and he wasn’t stuck with the old school chest McGonagall had once bought him. It was just a pity he hadn’t simply brought a backpack instead – he hadn’t needed his trunk at all in the end.

He took a bite of sandwich in demonstration of its edibility, then offered the little fairy a choice of bread in one hand, and meat in the other. To his delight, it flittered over on shimmering blue-green wings to alight on his right hand, and started nibbling at the corned beef with its tiny needle-sharp teeth. After it had devoured the morsel, it buzzed demandingly in front of his face. Harry laughed and gave it the rest of the slice of meat from half of the sandwich, while he ate the other half (and the leftover bread that it didn’t seem as keen on). It let out a buzzing happy trill, and settled down on his shoulder to eat.

From what he’d read, and what he’d heard from Pansy, while there was a lot of ceremony associated with visiting a stone Circle, the key thing to do was to offer a sacrifice, preferably of blood or magic. He wasn’t keen on sharing the former option but didn’t have a problem with giving it a little magic. He was fairly sure that so long as he didn’t use his wand, it wouldn’t set off any alarms. He thought maybe it wouldn’t be a big problem if he _did_ use a wand, as he wasn’t near any Muggles, but didn’t want to take the chance; Aunt Petunia had made them sound really strict about it, and the teachers _always_ made sure you knew you shouldn’t practice magic over the holidays.

With the little fairy chewing and buzzing away happily on his shoulder, Harry approached the stone it had nested near (carefully avoiding stepping on the plants it had emerged from underneath), and placed his hand on the boulder. He closed his eyes, focused on his magic, and tried to channel it through his arm and into the rock, as if the boulder was a wand and he was casting a Lumos spell (as he’d practised a lot with that spell for the technique where you increased and decreased the rate of magic flow). It didn’t seem to have the same resistance that he got when trying to push magic into a wooden or metal spoon for Potions. It was an odd sensation, like it was soaking his magic up like a sponge, but not letting it flow through it.

An excited trill and a whistle of wings past his ear startled him into opening his eyes; the stone was shimmering with a faint sparkle of golden light, and the little fairy had flown over to it and was rolling around on the top of the stone, rubbing its face against the rock and trilling, like a happy cat purring in a patch of sunlight. As Harry watched in wonder, he heard little questioning chirrups from the woods, then two other fairies zipped over to the stone with happy trills of their own to loll around the rock as well.

“Magic in a stone is like fairy catnip!” Harry said with a smile. “A gift of magic from me to nature, and the fey. Enjoy.” Magic wasn’t so bad, really. He’d never felt so connected to nature before. It was like he was a vital part of their ecology.

He watched them dance and trill and loll around like tiny little drunk people, until he glanced at his watch and swore. He’d better run to the road and catch the bus home, or he was going to be late to make dinner.

***

Harry decided to open his Yule gifts after dinner on Christmas Eve this year. Yule was a few days before Christmas anyway, so it wasn’t like it was _cheating_ , he justified a little guiltily to himself. He’d have to be up early on Christmas morning anyway to start cooking breakfast, and he knew there were a _lot_ of gifts to get through this year.

Pansy’s gift was opened first – it was just an envelope, which he’d found intriguing. Did the wizarding world have gift certificates? There was nothing but a short polite note inside, not even a card, which apologetically explained that his Yule gift was being special ordered, and unfortunately wasn’t going to arrive in time for Yule. That was a shame. He wondered what it was.

Hermione had sent him a book this year, _Isaac Asimov’s Guide to Earth and Space_ , which was a non-wizarding book by the famous science fiction author that gave scientific answers to questions like, “What makes the wind blow?” and, “How was the moon formed?” Harry thought it looked really interesting. Harry had written to Flourish and Blotts to ask them about books on house-elves, and had owl-ordered her one that hadn’t been in the Hogwarts library. He had no idea what was in it, but figured she’d be thrilled to read something new on the topic.

Neville had gotten him a new bottle of Invisible Ink, with a note saying he’d noticed Harry was starting to run out. It was a very thoughtful gift. He’d really enjoyed using the ink Pansy got him last year – he’d written a lot of notes for Potions in it in the margins of his textbook. He hoped Neville would like the cherry wood Potions spoon he’d bought him.

Before he left Hogwarts, Ron had given him a gift to take home to unwrap of a red and brown striped quill, and said his mother would no doubt send him another jumper. (It hadn’t arrived by Christmas Eve, though.) Harry had given Ron a bunch of chocolate frogs.

Tracey had gotten him chocolate frogs again (he really should mention he was lactose intolerant), and Millicent had gifted him some soft green gloves that matched last year’s scarf. Daphne had double checked with him that his owl ward wouldn’t make her gift get lost, before bypassing the whole issue in an attack of paranoia and giving her gift to him before he left, “just in case”. It was a dark purple Italian silk cravat. Harry felt guilty that he still didn’t know a lot about what the Slytherin girls all liked – did that make him a bad friend? They really didn’t chat about personal stuff very often. He’d gotten fancy chocolates for Millicent and Daphne, a silver Potions ladle for Pansy, and for Tracey (who’d oddly enough been the easiest to buy for) he’d ordered a copy of the book on wizarding dining and party etiquette that Mrs. Parkinson had encouraged him to buy last year.

He’d wondered if Quirrell might send him another photo this year, and sure enough as night fell there was an owl with a delivery waiting on his window. But it was a book, not a photo. He’d bought Harry a new spell book by Professor Vindictus Viridian on basic curses: _Curses and Counter-Curses (Bewitch your Friends and Befuddle your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and much, much more)._ The enclosed chatty letter included some encouragement to not be ashamed of his reported skill in Parseltongue, and that his heritage must surely include an ancestor from Slytherin’s line. For Harry should remember that there was no good or evil, it is simply a power and he should not be too scared to use it. A rare talent such as his was something he simply _must_ value and foster. He also included some advice in regards to his Yule gift.

_I am sorry I could not send you a book on the Old Ways since you expressed an interest in such tomes. Unfortunately, most books on this topic are hard to procure, and many of the traditions are transmitted by word of mouth only, in any case. If I should by some fortunate chance stumble across one I shall acquire it for you._

_While some of the spells in the book I sent are juvenile, it is useful to know the counters to such curses lest one be forced to rely on the dubious mercy of one’s classmates. Other curses (all legal) in this book are surprisingly effective and their usefulness in duels is not to be underestimated for a young wizard who should not bow to the petty opposition of those who don’t appreciate his skills for the wondrous gift they are. At your age I found the Tongue-Tying Curse particularly effective at stymieing others in duels – for silent spellcasting is practically unknown in the junior years (and even some of the seventh years will never master that art). Do not let the sneers of ill-informed children discomfort you; remember you are destined for greatness._

It was nice to have an adult sticking up for _him_ , instead of for his detractors. It made Harry feel kind of warm and happy to know that someone cared about him and his problems, and thought he was great. Harry tucked Quirrell’s letter away with the others in the secret compartment at the bottom of his trunk, which he’d set now to only respond to a password.

Quirrell did tell Harry off a bit in his letter though – chiding him that Harry had told him last year he had no special powers in his family line. His soft rebuke made Harry feel more guilty than any of Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon’s rants about his incompetence and stupidity had ever managed. So in his lengthy thank you letter Harry apologised sincerely, though he also added defensively that _technically_ he said he had no _unknown_ special powers. So what he’d said was true, from a certain point of view. And he knew what Parseltongue’s reputation was like already from his reading – he’d never told _anyone_ he could understand snakes.

This year Harry had additionally brought home a large number of small gifts, thanks to Pansy’s unwanted hints. There were a lot of little presents including a large number of cravats (in different colours and styles) which seemed the most popular choice due to the somewhat traditional nature of the gift. There were also some quills, many sweets, and small bottles of coloured ink. In addition to the more generic gifts there were also a few stand-out unusual gifts, including a few potions personally brewed by some upper-year Slytherins he’d never heard of before, a pair of cufflinks with small silver snakes on them (from Draco Malfoy), and a new pointed hat with an intricate buckle on it (from Ernie Macmillan).

After a comfortable night’s sleep with his fur-lined cloak spread out on top of his thin blankets for extra warmth, Harry was happy to bounce out of bed and cook breakfast for the family – thick cut slices of ham off the bone and some eggs, all fried and greasy and delicious.

The mountain of gifts was of course for Dudley as usual. But Dudley had a gift of his own to give to Harry this year - his old Walkman and a couple of old music cassettes.

“I’ve got a Discman now, so I don’t need it anymore. It still works!”

“Thanks, Dudley,” said Harry, surprised. “I got you something for you this year, too.”

“It’s not…” rumbled Vernon dangerously, with a raised eyebrow.

“No, sir,” said Harry. “It’s not, you know… anything odd.”

Dudley ripped open Harry’s present to reveal a pack of different coloured highlighters.

“They’re very handy for highlighting passages in your textbooks,” Harry explained. “I do it all the time if I’m reading something long and boring – you colour in a passage that looks interesting and like it might be on an exam.”

“Oh yeah,” mused Dudley. “I’ve seen that in your textbooks, sometimes. I figured you just got bored and started scribbling. So it’s a study thing?”

“Yeah, it lets me look back for the important stuff for exams without having to read the whole book again. I use yellow for things that might make good test questions, like dates and places, and green for good points for putting in essays. But the colours aren’t important – you can make up your own system.”

From Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon Harry got clothes, note-taking supplies, and a roll of stamps. There was also an extra gift – a brand new “Teach Yourself French” book and tape set.

“It was _my_ idea,” Dudley said proudly.

Harry had wracked his brains over what to get Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. He wanted to get them something this year (in the past he’d used to make some craft project at school like everyone else), but didn’t want to show off that he had an independent source of money for presents. So he’d secretly baked some cookies one day while everyone was out.

“There’s lemon shortbread, and burnt-butter biscuits,” he explained nervously as Aunt Petunia opened his gift a little warily to reveal the container full of biscuits. “I baked them myself here at home.”

Aunt Petunia took a bite of one and gave a small approving smile, which was all the encouragement the others needed to grab some for themselves. Harry smiled proudly. They loved them!

After lunch and the consequent cleaning up, Harry spent the afternoon listening to his French tapes. He was pretty sure the Walkman wouldn’t work at Hogwarts (apparently electronics usually didn’t), so he’d have to leave it here. He invited Dudley to join him in practising French, but Dudley looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Are you thick or what? Didn’t you _see_ how much cool new stuff I got? I’ve got better stuff to do than study.”

So Harry spent a quiet afternoon in his room practising French, and as sun set a couple of owls arrived with late gifts, as the new ward let them through at last. There were a few more “suck up” gifts (as he thought of them), and one from the Weasley family. The Weasleys’ decrepit owl pecked him crossly before flopping tiredly onto his bed with a large magically lightened package that turned out to contain a knitted red jumper and a plum cake. Harry was glad he’d sent the whole family a large gift basket of cookies and sweets this year to share.

As he’d suspected from their correspondence earlier, the Appleby Arrows had indeed sent him some clothes in team colours as a Yule gift. There was a full set of Quidditch robes and protective gear in pale blue emblazoned with a silver arrow, a supporter’s pale blue scarf with enchanted arrows picked out in silver threads that whizzed around the borders of the scarf, and an animated poster signed by the whole team. Harry decided he’d put it up on his dorm room wall when he got back to Hogwarts. Ron would probably be happy to hear he’d picked a team to support (even if it _wasn’t_ the Chudley Cannons), and no doubt would be able to quote plenty of statistics about the team. It had all been shrunken down for ease of delivery by an owl, as the accompanying letter explained, which could be easily reversed with a wand tap.

The remainder of the holiday passed without incident, except for a second covert trip out to Potter Manor (equipped this time only with a backpack and more snacks). He tried a couple of simple rituals at the Circle and did his best to charge up the stones with his magic. The local fairies seemed delighted by his efforts, and voraciously devoured his offerings of fruit and meat. He also collected a couple of blue glazed tiles from the rubble of Potter Manor as a small souvenir.

Dudley eventually got around to practising a bit of French with Harry, and joined him in practising saying things like, “Please pass the eggs” in French at breakfast time.

Soon enough he was headed back to Hogwarts, where one last special Yule gift was waiting for him. Pansy came and found him the instant he set foot on the Hogwarts Express, and before he could think about finding Neville she dragged him away excitedly to her compartment.

“I simply couldn’t wait another minute!” she exclaimed happily. “Your gift arrived just a couple of days ago! Come and see!”

Harry wondered what had her so worked up. It probably wasn’t a cravat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lesser Circle in the grounds of Potter manor is modelled after the Castlerigg stone circle (which is 38 stones in a circle 33m across), though the one in my fic is surrounded by forest, with a lake view. See: http://members.optusnet.com.au/~pelari/potter/Castlerigg-Stone-Circle.jpg  
> There are over 1,300 stone circles in the UK.
> 
> In case you’re wondering about Harry’s lactose intolerance, see Chapter 9 of “The Definition of Normal”. Harry has neither a milk allergy nor lactose intolerance. He has an abusive uncle who tricked him into foregoing all kinds of desserts and other foods on the grounds of being “allergic”, after adding an emetic to his “test” glass of milk. That’ll teach him not to steal Dudley’s ice-cream!
> 
> Thanks again to all the wonderful people who write a review, leave a comment, or favourited/follow my fic or leave kudos! Thanks this week to those who wrote a comment/review: mwinter1, Toraach, DragonfireOfHope, A Boleyn, Baelorfan, 01asdf, history, Crystal M. Key, SupremeEntity11, Lairenna, 9down6across, Thundramon, neogoblin, Annasfanfic, sh777, TheAzreal, Arvi, sephonered, LokiFirefox, vladomakos22, Maddie, angelwhisper526, and kaanna.
> 
> I’m not going to list everyone individually every chapter, but I will do so intermittently. :)


	15. Unexpected Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry receives a couple of late gifts for Yule, and Ron and Hermione's Polyjuiced attempt to weasel information about the Heir out of Draco Malfoy yields some unexpected results.

**_January, 1993_ **

His arm firmly held in Pansy’s iron grip, Harry stumbled down the narrow corridor on the Hogwarts Express, trunk bumping against the walls slightly as he went. She dragged him into the compartment where Millicent and Daphne were already settled in, ankles decorously crossed as they lounged on the cushioned seats.

“I have a _very_ special Yule gift for you, Harry!” chattered Pansy happily. “Sorry it’s late – it took a while to organise. Open it very carefully.” She handed him a small tightly-woven basket with a lid on it.

“Thank you, Pansy.”

Harry lifted the lid off the basket and peeked inside cautiously. Inside was a small sleeping pencil-thin grey-brown snake with a creamy white band of scales around its neck. It appeared to be nestled in a bed of wet moss and some kind of blotchy looking leaves. He put the lid back on the basket.

“It’s a snake,” he said flatly.

Millicent snickered. “Behold the amazing perceptual abilities of the Boy Who Lived. Quail before his Dark Majesty.”

“Don’t you see Harry? It’s perfect for you! You can talk to it, and carry it around with you. No-one is going to bother you, and everyone will be impressed and reminded of your ability. They’ll get used to it faster that way too,” Pansy said proudly. “It’s imported – it’s a magical snake from Australia called a Rainbow Serpent. They don’t sell them to just anyone, you know. You should see it in the light! It’s beautiful how the scales shimmer.”

“Pansy, I don’t _want_ to remind people I can speak Parseltongue. Anyway, I can’t have a pet snake. Only owls, cats or toads are allowed - you know that.”

“Technically, only _first_ years are limited to an owl, cat or toad,” Pansy smirked. “Rules are different for first years, like not being allowed broomsticks. And besides, plenty of people have other animals and don’t get reprimanded for it, so long as they’re small and don’t cause trouble. Your Weasley friend has a rat, for instance.”

“No-one’s going to let me keep a _poisonous magical_ _snake_ , Pansy.”

“It’s not poisonous! It’s a constrictor – it crushes its prey, or just swallows it whole. I’ve got you a booklet on Rainbow Serpents, and a shrunken tank you can make a habitat in,” she said, handing him a ribbon-bedecked box. “You can read all about your new snake and what it needs - don’t forget to apply warming charms regularly. It’s just a baby so it will be easy to feed.”

“And how big will it get, if it’s a foot long while it’s a baby?” he asked warily.

“Well, usually sixteen to twenty three feet, depending on if it’s well looked after and if it’s raised in a highly magical environment or not.”

“That’s enormous! You must be joking!”

“Sea serpents are bigger,” said Pansy defensively, “they can be up to a hundred feet long. Quetzalcoatls are larger too. And it will be small for years, yet. Are you spurning my gift? Don’t you like it?” she said, tears glistening in her eyes. “We worked really hard to get something special just for you.”

Harry wasn’t sure if she was really upset or not – it was hard to tell with her sometimes. He felt pretty bad, either way. She’d clearly put in a lot of thought and money to get him a special gift for Yule, and here he was doing nothing but criticising it.

“I… I am truly appreciative for the honour of such a thoughtful gift,” he said formally. “It’s a beautiful snake. I merely have some concerns about whether I would be permitted to care for such an exotic gift at school.”

“You could play the teachers off against each other,” suggested Daphne. “Just tell McGonagall that Snape ranted about the snake and insisted you get rid of it.”

“That’s brilliant!” Harry said, impressed. “But what if she checks that story with him?”

Daphne preened happily. “He’ll deny it of course, but she’ll be sure he’s lying. Those two are always fighting.” Her expression was rightfully smug. “If you want to keep your nose out of it, be sure to say that another un-named Gryffindor told you about Snape’s rant and you didn’t hear it personally - if you don’t want him to blame only you. You might get a detention from Snape at most but you’ll get to keep the snake – your Head of House makes that call.” Harry thought it was a great plan.

“Thank you, Daphne!”

“What about _me_? It’s _my_ present!” whined Pansy jealously, still looking upset.

“ _Thank you_ , Pansy.”

Pansy delicately dabbed her eyes dry with a lace edged hanky, and smiled at him. “You’re welcome, cousin. Don’t forget to tell people it’s from the Parkinson family.”

“Subtle,” he said, with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, you _are_ a Gryffindor. Oh, and Draco sends his most cordial greetings and asks if you’ll meet with him in the library after dinner as soon as we’re back. I understand he has an extra Yule gift from his family for you.”

Neville eventually found their compartment, and at Harry’s immediate loud insistence that of _course_ he was welcome to join them, the girls didn’t say a word in protest, or even so much as roll their eyes. Harry was very pleased. He really wanted his friends to try and get along with each other better, and Neville was the one most tolerated by the Slytherins, and vice versa.

“Show him your gift, Harry!” Pansy demanded.

“Of course, my delicate flower of a cousin. Since you asked so nicely,” drawled Harry, sarcasm clear in his voice. Pansy looked taken aback, and Daphne smiled to see Harry correcting _Pansy’s_ manners.

Neville peeked hesitantly inside the basket.

“Are those eucalypt leaves? What species of moss is it?”

“Uh, you did notice the snake, right?”

“Yes. But the plant matter for the nest engages my interest more. It is just a snake after all, and I am sure it’s not dangerous or you would have conveyed that information to me immediately.”

“Gryffindors, so… trusting. And brave,” mused Pansy, tacking on the last bit as a consolatory compliment.

“I trust _Harry_ ,” Neville said pointedly. Pansy smiled at him, all the same.

***

Not all his reunions with friends went so happily and smoothly, however. At the evening feast, Hermione couldn’t even be found. He asked Ron, who was seated in between Seamus and a third year student, but got a very brusque response.

“She’s in the hospital wing.”

“What?! Did she get petrified?”

“While _you_ were away? Obviously not,” snapped Ron.

“What’s wrong with her? Are you okay? What happened?”

“She’s fine, just a Potions accident. And I found some things out. About _you_. But I don’t think you want me talking about them _here_ , do you?” said Ron in a portentous tone. “You wouldn’t want your secrets told to _everyone_?”

Harry froze in worry. What had Ron discovered about him? His careful system of average grades? His covert spellcasting practice sessions? His secret correspondence with Quirrell, who was still sought by the Aurors for theft?

“What? There’s nothing to find. I don’t have secrets.”

“Like being a Parselmouth?” hinted Ron heavily. “That kind of not-having-secrets?”

“This is taking-”

“-forever,” said the twin Weasleys.

“What our little brother is trying to say-”

“-is that he thinks you’re the Heir of Slytherin now.”

“I was _trying_ to be _discreet_ for the sake of a former friend!” shouted Ron angrily.

“’ _Former_ ’ friend? You think I’m the Heir?” said Harry stupidly. He couldn’t believe it.

“I _know_ you’re the Heir of Slytherin!”

There was a clatter of cutlery around them at Ron’s loud proclamation and a couple of the more timid first years meeped worriedly and were quickly shushed by others around them.

“This is stupid. You’re being stupid,” Harry said, pushing the basket with the snake in it _very_ carefully further under his chair with his foot so no-one would see it or knock it over. That would be very bad timing.

“I’m not stupid! _You’re_ stupid! Attacking Muggle-borns! You’re not even pure-blood yourself, you prat!”

“Ron! McGonagall is heading this way!” hissed Seamus. Ron promptly shut up.

“Any trouble here?” asked Professor McGonagall, sweeping up to their table.

“No, Professor,” said Harry with an earnest look. “Just a difference of opinion.”

She raised an eyebrow disbelievingly, and turned to Ron. “Mr. Weasley?”

“Nothing, Professor,” he said, with a meaningful glare in Harry’s direction.

“Keep this ‘nothing’ to a quiet murmur, boys,” she said, “and stop embarrassing Gryffindor.” She gave a warning glare, and stalked away without taking any points. Everyone pointedly focused their attention on eating for a while, punctuated by very quiet gossip that Harry suspected was mostly about him, given the mix of fearful, disbelieving and awed looks he was getting from the students surrounding him.

“Maybe we should try talking to him back in the dorm? I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding,” suggested Neville.

“I have to go meet Draco in the library after dinner,” said Harry, “or he’ll think I’m snubbing him.”

His comment started a little Chinese whisper as Lavender overheard him and told Dean about his meeting, who told Seamus, who told Ron, who scowled at him fiercely.

“Oh great,” said Harry as he overheard the start of the gossip chain and watched the inevitable result, resting his head on the dining table with a thump. “I made things worse.” He sighed unhappily. “Do you think Hermione won’t want to be my friend anymore either?”

“I guess we’ll have to go see her tomorrow when visiting hours start? I’m sure she and Ron talked about whatever’s set him off over Yule,” whispered Neville. “She’ll have some answers. And I’ll talk to Ron, Harry.”

Harry picked at his food sadly, not one to miss a meal no matter how he was feeling.

***

Draco put a gift down on the library table with a heavy thump – a medium-sized box tied with a shimmering green ribbon. “This is from my mother Narcissa Malfoy, your second cousin, who sends her special regards. You have to open it after Pansy’s gift, however, or it will ruin her surprise,” he warned politely.

“Thank you; I’ve already opened Pansy’s gift, though I haven’t uh… awoken the pet yet,” he said, glancing around warily. “Neville took her gifts up to the dorm for me. I wasn’t aware we were that closely related?” he added curiously. “Your family and mine?”

“Through the Blacks – my mother’s family. Your grandmother Dorea Black is the sister of my great-grandfather Pollux Black. But please, let us discuss our connection another time, as I know my mother is eager to hear what you think of her gift and it will be curfew soon enough.”

Harry opened the present obediently – there were a couple of large rocks in a box.

“Rocks,” said Harry with a raised eyebrow. “I can’t wait to tell all my friends. You really shouldn’t have,” he said dryly.

“ _Enchanted_ rocks. If you merely tap them with your wand they will heat up and stay warm for about twelve hours – I understand they would make a valuable addition to your snake habitat, as they should be very comfortable for a cold snake in the harsh winters we get here in Scotland.”

Harry nodded his appreciation. “Sorry, I guess it was silly to assume they were just ordinary rocks.”

Draco looked a little cross, but willing to let it go. “And this is from my father,” he said, passing over a slim rectangular package tied in shimmering silver paper.

Harry unwrapped it to reveal a dark red leather-bound book. He flipped through it – it was a blank diary with the year’s dates written in at the top of each page in beautiful calligraphy, and a faint watermark of a snake on each creamy page of parchment. Embossed in the leather on the front cover was the Potter coat of arms.

“It’s a diary – father wrote that he thought you might like one. Unless you already have one, in which case he said to tell you he’s happy to exchange it for something else of more interest?” Draco asked politely.

“No, I don’t really have one. I do have a Muggle study planner that Hermione gave me for my birthday that I write homework and study notes in. This is much uh... better quality. A nice journal more suited to personal research notes, so I’m sure it will come in very handy and I’d be happy to accept it.” Harry thought it would be very rude to refuse something so obviously custom made for him. Besides, it looked nice, and useful. “Please let your parents know I’ll be sending them some thank you notes at the earliest opportunity. You got yours for the cufflinks already, I hope?”

“Yes, thank you kindly. It was nicely written. Though if you don’t mind me saying so, you should invest in some sealing wax for a nice finishing touch for your more formal missives.”

“I’ll look into it,” promised Harry. “Neville mentioned it to me a while ago, too.”

“Did he? Good for him,” said Draco, sounding impressed. “I suppose the Longbottoms are quite an old pure-blood family too aren’t they, even if they’re not one of father’s favourites.”

“Neville and Hermione are good friends of mine,” said Harry.

“And Weasley?”

“Ron?…Not so much anymore,” sighed Harry sadly.

Draco looked smugly delighted at that tidbit of news, but couldn’t coax Harry to tell him what had caused the split. Aided by the fact that Harry didn’t really _know_ what had caused Ron to turn on him. Though he had some guesses. And the next morning, Ron confirmed one of them.

Ron confronted Harry with the _truth_ he’d found out about him.

“We used the Polyjuice, and it worked great for me. And I got chatting with Malfoy, and guess what little secret he let slip? _He knows you’re the Heir,_ ” Ron said dramatically.

“He _thinks_ I’m the Heir,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “Honestly Ron, if you’d just _asked_ me I could’ve told you he thought that. I told you he wasn’t the Heir – at least you’ve given up on _that_ idiotic idea.”

“You can’t fool me any longer, Potter!”

“Potter?” Harry echoed sadly, feeling hurt.

“We’re not _friends_ , Potter. I won’t be friends with someone who’s the Heir of Slytherin. Because Parseltongue only comes from Slytherin’s line, and only Dark wizards have it. _And_ Malfoy told me the truth – that you’ve been practising Dark rituals for _years_ now in secret! And learning powerful magic in secret, and there’s more talents you’re keeping hidden from everyone!”

Harry scowled at him. “I’m not a Dark wizard.”

“But the rest is true!!”

“No. You’re being impossible to talk to. You know that, right?”

“Why are you trusting what Malfoy’s saying instead of what Harry is?” asked Neville. “We’re your friends, Ron.”

“Well, we can still be friends, unless you side with _him_. And I wouldn’t trust anything Malfoy told _me_. But I can trust what he told _Goyle_ ,” he said smugly.

“You’re an idiot!” yelled Harry, and grabbed his backpack of books and stomped off. Neville scurried after him.

“Not… the best rejoinder… Harry,” he puffed as he jogged to keep up.

“Yeah… well… I was mad. He’s being stupid,” grumped Harry. “And I have to figure out what to do about the stupid snake before someone panics about it, or it dies from neglect. I don’t _hate_ snakes – that wouldn’t be fair to it or Pansy. _And_ I have to find time to see Hermione.”

“And people keep staring at me!” he yelled angrily, as he noticed the attention their urgent jog was garnering from students in the halls. About a third of them bowed as he yelled and glared at them, and he groaned as he kept jogging.

***

Harry bolted down his breakfast, ignoring everyone while he read through the first few pages of his snake instruction booklet, _For Carers of Rainbow Serpents._ Harry read that the little snake had been placed into a special charmed sleep for transport, and needed to be awoken as soon as possible to feed, with the Reviving Spell, _Rennervate_. Harry didn’t know that spell so he politely (and very, very quietly) asked Percy for assistance, as a friend and “very talented Prefect”. Percy whispered that he’d be happy to help him out, but only after Harry had spoken to Professor McGonagall and gotten approval to keep a pet snake in the dorm.

“Given the mood of ah, some of the students, I think you’ll want her seal of approval on the matter.”

Daphne’s plan to convince McGonagall to let him keep the snake worked like a dream. While she was initially against the idea, Professor McGonagall took umbrage at the report of Snape telling one of her lions what to do. She was additionally persuaded more in favour of his new pet by Harry’s insinuations that the Gryffindors were irrationally scared of his abilities and should be coaxed into facing their fears.

Snape was highly unimpressed with the telling off he presumably got from McGonagall, which must have been administered that very day at lunchtime. For after that afternoon’s Potions class he rightly placed the blame where it did in fact belong – with Harry.

“Did I in fact ever, Mr. Potter, suggest that snakes were not a permitted pet and demand you _dispose_ of it post-haste? Or in any way imply that it would be better utilised as potion ingredients than a pet?” said Snape in a poisonously soft tone, after class.

Harry tried to protest his innocence, but Snape’s piercing eyes seemed to see straight through his tissue-thin lies, and he was told to report to the Potions classroom after classes ended tomorrow afternoon for detention.

***

Harry decided it would be best to visit Hermione _before_ waking his snake. Just in case it tipped the balance to convince her he was the Heir.

When they were finally admitted to the Hospital Wing (apparently there’d been a lot of gawkers lately) Hermione’s appearance shocked them both, which embarrassed her greatly. She had yellow-brown eyes, fuzzy pointed ears poking through her hair, and _whiskers_.

“Whoa!”

“Merlin’s beard!”

Hermione winced. “I know. But, it used to be worse. At least the fur’s gone. Madam Pomfrey says it will be weeks yet before I’m fully recovered.” She leaned in close to whisper. “It was a cat hair in the Polyjuice – it was supposed to be Millicent’s hair, but she must have a pet cat.”

“Are you going to be alright?” asked Harry concernedly.

“Yes, with a regime of rather disgusting potions I have to take multiple times a day to reverse the damage slowly.”

“But what about classes?”

“I… I can’t go out looking like this. And I have to avoid doing magic while I’m recovering. So I’m on strict bed rest, and Madam Pomfrey took my wand away,” she said grumpily. “At least Ron’s been fetching me books from the library.”

Harry and Neville exchanged a glance.

“So did he, uh, share his new theory with you?” asked Harry cautiously.

“About you being the Heir?”

Harry nodded.

“Yes, though I’m not convinced by the train of logic.”

A big, beaming smile of relief spread over Harry’s face. “So, we’re still friends, then?”

“Of course! I don’t think you’re the Heir, and even if you were related to Slytherin that doesn’t conclusively demonstrate you must be the one responsible for petrifying students. I don’t see you have either the motivation or the skills required,” she stated bluntly. Some other people might have been offended, but Harry and Neville were used to her now.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said gratefully. “And if I was to happen to have err… a pet snake, just a _little_ one, would that be alright with you?”

“This isn’t a hypothetical, is it.”

“No, not really. Pansy got it for me as a gift. I couldn’t say no.”

“Well you _could_ , actually. Anyway, I think they’re banned. So hypothetically while I wouldn’t have any objection if it was well behaved it’s a moot issue. The rules say, ‘an owl _or_ a cat _or_ a toad’.”

“It’s alright, I’ve got Professor McGonagall’s permission.”

Hermione looked flummoxed. “Well, so long as it’s safe.”

“If it _isn’t_ safe, I’m getting rid of it,” said Harry determinedly. “No matter how much Pansy might cry. I’m not having a pet that attacks my friends.”

“And that’s why I don’t think you’re petrifying people, Harry. You’re just not that mean. Mind you, I don’t think it’s Malfoy either any more. I doubt he would give you the credit when talking to his friends if it was really him – he’s too arrogant for that. I wonder who it is? And don’t worry about Ron, he’ll come around when he realises he’s listening to _Malfoy_.”

But Harry wasn’t so sure of that. Harry promised Hermione he’d help bring her class assignments and copies of his notes, and he and Neville both said they’d visit often.

Now he had a snake to wake up from its enchanted slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Virtual Anzac cookies for anyone who can guess the reasoning behind Lucius Malfoy’s gift to Harry. :)
> 
> And well done to those who guessed Pansy’s gift – you were right, it was a pet snake! *hands out cookies*
> 
> Please note – the Rainbow Serpent is an important religious/mythological figure in a large number of the many different Aboriginal traditional cultures of Australia (note there is not just one culture, but many, as there are many different Native American cultures). Its depiction in this fic as a cute little pet, albeit one that will one day grow into a very fearsome and powerful serpent, is done without any intent to disrespect the vibrancy and richness of the cultures the Rainbow Serpent mythos is a part of. Those few aspects of some Aboriginal cultures that will be touched on here and there in my fic are seen through the eyes of a young snake whose knowledge has come from generations of oral storytelling from parent to hatchling, and are thus of necessity imperfect and shallowly understood.
> 
> More links to images of snakes that are the IRL inspiration for Harry’s snake will be posted next chapter. Here’s one to get you started – the juvenile “Sunbeam snake” (Xenopeltis Unicolour) - http://members.optusnet.com.au/~pelari/potter/Sunbeam-snake-%20juvenile1.jpg
> 
> Mimosa wrote: “I do feel sorry for Severus. Parting with a treasured photo and not even a thank you.”
> 
> I know, poor Snape. :( He just assumes Potter wasn’t smart enough to figure out who sent the gift. Which is right, in a way, for Harry did indeed guess wrong. However, if Quirrell hadn’t stolen credit with Harry’s wrong guess, he would’ve figured it out eventually.


	16. Conversations With Snakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry chats with his new pet snake, and also has a number of conversations with Slytherin friends.

**_January, 1993_ **

After returning from the Hospital Wing Harry set up his snake habitat in his dorm room before fetching Percy to help wake up his new pet. Professor McGonagall had thoughtfully arranged for his bedside table to be either enlarged, or swapped with a big desk. He couldn’t tell which one it was, but all his stuff was still there, so he guessed it didn’t really matter. He carefully levitated the snake and its bed of moss and leaves into the tank, filled a dish with water to be like a little pond for the snake to swim in, and tapped the enchanted rocks with his wand to warm them up. They were pleasantly toasty to the touch, but not burning hot.

Percy cast the Reviving Spell on Harry’s snakelet, then backed away hastily.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” he said nervously. “As you’re a Parselmouth, you may as well use your ability for good, and explain how it shouldn’t bite anyone.”

“Absolutely,” said Harry to Percy. “If it won’t behave, it will have to go. We can’t have dangerous pets in the dorms!”

“Very responsible attitude, Harry,” Percy said approvingly with a nod of his head, and left the room shutting the door behind him.

The little brown snake uncurled from its curl and wiggled onto one of the warm rocks – the one positioned where it was lit by a weak beam of wintery afternoon sunlight coming in through the window as the sun set. As the light hit its scales Harry saw where it got its name from – the scales lit up with a shimmer of gentle iridescent rainbows streaking across its scales. The grey-brown scales looked the brightest with long stripes of colour running down its length, while the white scales like a neckband below its head took on a rainbow pearly glimmer. It looked nondescript in shadows, but in the light it was truly magnificent to see.

“ _Well aren’t you just the most beautiful sssnake_ ,” he said, hissing without noticing the difference in his speech.

“ _A Clever-man!_ ” it said, in a tiny hissing voice he had to strain to hear. “ _I have been freed by a Clever-man?! I am beautiful!_ ” Harry thought it sounded very pleased.

“ _Yess, little Rainbow Ssserpent, you have been bought for me as a gift. As a companion. Would you like to ssstay with me? Will you avoid biting my friendss, or their petss?_ ”

“ _I cannot leave. There are wallss of quartz here_ ,” it said, bumping its head gently against the glass of its tank. “ _But it is warm, and I have found a Clever-man! I am fortunate! I will not bite any but prey. I will not harm any you do not tell me to. I will ssstay and you will help find prey for me to devour. I will grow ssstrong.”_

 _“Will you bite me or sssqueeze me to harm me if I pick you up?_ ” Harry asked, being extra cautious.

“ _No! We must never harm a Clever-man. You are our friendss in the Dreamtime. Mother told me and her mother told her. And they bring uss prey when the big dry timess come. You are ssspecial._ ”

“ _The Dreamtime - what’s that?”_

_“It is ssspecial. The Dreaming is a place. It is here. It is not here. It is a time that is now. It is a time that is not now and is long past, and yet to come. Very ssspecial place where all ssspecial things come from in the beginning. There are pathss made by sssongss.”_

_“Is it when you sssleep?”_

_“Yes. No. Yes and no. It is not a sssleeping thing where you catch giant prey. It is the Dreamtime.”_

It seemed very confusing. But then, he’d never tried to have a philosophical conversation with a baby snake before, and perhaps this wasn’t the right time to try – he really had other more urgent priorities to communicate. Harry reached into the tank to pick it up.

“ _Do you have teeth? Will you bite those who aren’t Clever-men?_ ” It opened its jaws wide to show him an impressively large number of teeny tiny needle-sharp inwards-curving teeth in rows, rather than the two fangs he was expecting.

“ _They are much too big for me to eat. I can try when I am older, Clever-man! I will shed my ssskin and grow and I will be a mighty ssstealthy hunter!_ ” It sounded eager to please, rather than threatening. “ _You are ssspecial_ ,” it hissed happily as it coiled around his wrist. “ _Like the sssecret ssspecial cavesss_. _And you can ssspeak like sssome Clever-men do!_ ”

“ _I don’t want you to eat people, even when you’re bigger. And did you sssay you’ve met sssomeone else who can ssspeak with you like I can?”_ Harry asked eagerly. His research into Parselmouths had yielded mostly wizards like Herpo the Foul, who couldn’t really be held up as examples to other students that not all Parselmouths were evil. Opinions seemed divided as to whether Paracelsus was a Parselmouth or not – Harry thought yes, because the authors who stated they were against the idea seemed to base their argument on the fact he was a _good_ man and Healer, and that he merely officially “discovered” the language.

“ _No. Mother taught me the ssstoriess, before she left uss_.”

“ _Your mother was killed?_ ” Harry asked sympathetically.

“ _No, she just left uss for better hunting. Then the men caught myself and sssome of my nest-matess with a catching-ssstick and put uss in a basket_. _I got a pink baby mouse to eat._ ”

“ _Oh, well your sssiblingss are probably fine and living with another Clever-man like me_. _There are lots of uss you know._ ”

It flicked its tongue gently against the skin of his hand. It was so feather-light he could barely even feel it. “ _No, you are very ssspecial. You can talk!! Are you a SSSnake-man?_ ”

“ _I don’t understand what you’re asking me_.”

“ _Are you a sssnake sometimes, like I am a sssnake?_ ”

“ _No._ ”

It hissed disappointedly. “ _Perhapss you are too young. I cannot make lightning yet. Maybe you will get ssstronger_ ,” it said encouragingly. “ _It is a common thing in the Dreamtime_.”

Harry thought he’d really better prioritize reading the rest of his book before a lightning bolt struck the dorm tower. But first he had to introduce his new friend to his dorm mates.

He wouldn’t say it went well, but it could have been worse. Dean Thomas was impressed and thought it was “wicked”, and the snake seemed to like his dark skin, which looked “ _proper like ssskin should_ ”. Thomas thought that was very cool, and showed off how brave he was by briefly holding the snake, which impressed everyone.

Finnegan was warier but relieved it was non-poisonous, approved by McGonagall, and that it had promised Harry it wouldn’t bite.

Ron was clearly mentally adding it to a category in his mind labelled “Reasons Harry is Definitely the Heir of Slytherin”, and said he was going to check what Harry said with Professor McGonagall. He _did_ eventually show it his rat, though, after Neville had introduced his toad to it without incident. (The snake promised not to eat _this_ toad – especially since it was too big to swallow.)

“You don’t want it eating your rat by accident, do you?” Harry said, trying to stay polite and persuasive.

“It’s tiny, could it even manage? I don’t want it biting Scabbers, though. You keep that slimy snake away from him!”

“It’s not slimy! Look, you don’t have to _like_ the snake. Or me. Just let it scent the air near your rat so it knows it’s off-limits, alright? You don’t even have to let it touch Scabbers. And I promise it won’t bite.”

Harry held the little snakelet near Scabbers, who quivered nervously in Ron’s tight grip.

“ _Thiss is the rat you may not eat or bite or sssqueeze or chase,_ ” he explained. “ _It is ssspecial to the boy holding it_.”

“ _It is a ssspecial rat,_ ” the snake agreed, flicking its tongue in the air. “ _I will not eat it._ ”

“So, there you have it,” he said happily to the boys. They looked at him blankly. “You really didn’t understand any of that? I mean, just my part of course?”

“ _We’re_ not Dark wizards,” said Ron ominously.

“Well I told my snake to leave your pet rat alone, and it promised it would,” said Harry grouchily, running out of politeness. “Just like a real Dark wizard and his dreadful and enormous _rainbow-coloured_ Serpent of Doom would do. So now I’m going to be really eeeevil and go sleep in my evil bed.”

Ron just scowled but his mocking got a snicker out of the other boys, so that was something.

“ _You must feed me sssoon,_ ” complained the snake as he returned it to the tank. “ _There is no prey here_.”

“ _I will_ ,” he promised.

And the next morning at breakfast after a hasty early consultation with Professor McGonagall (sadly without an opportunity to talk to house elves directly despite his wheedling) there was some coconut milk at the breakfast table in a special jug just for him, and another jug full of tiny live fish swimming around in water. He took the latter straight up to his dorm, and coaxed his sleepy snakelet awake for a little snack (his book said they were nocturnal). Thank Merlin for house-elves and their fish-catching ways. It snapped up a single fish from its tiny pond, then burrowed under some leaf litter to sleep again.

Classes were unremarkable, the only difficulty that day was deciding what quality of notes to take for Hermione’s viewing. In the end after settling it in his own mind, he asked Neville to take notes for her for Herbology and Potions, while he would do his best notes on what the teachers said in Charms and Transfiguration, but _no more_ than recording what the teachers were saying. No extra dot points of useful tips, or notes on what to research later, or highlighting of what might be on an exam.

He refused to take notes for History of Magic – he thought it was pointless in the extreme (at least how Binns taught it you were better off just reading the book), so Neville said he’d do that one too. Neither of them wanted to do Astronomy or DADA, so Neville said he’d ask Ron to cover those subjects for her.

Snape’s detention rolled around sooner than he wanted, but it wasn’t too bad - just scrubbing crusty old cauldrons. He got to work with a practised efficiency that seemed to startle Snape.

“So the pampered Boy Who Lived knows how to lower himself to such menial tasks after all.”

Harry snorted. “I’ve cleaned enough cauldrons while I’ve been here. And it’s not so different to scrubbing cooking pots, sir. And who told you I’m pampered?”

“It is a well-known fact, Mr. Potter.”

“No, seriously. Please, who _told_ you I was pampered? The Daily Prophet?”

Snape paused a moment. “It has reported several times on your welfare, it is true. The headmaster has in the past supplied them with updates when it has been deemed appropriate to satiate the demands of your adoring public.”

“Dumbledore. Figures,” said Harry contemptuously.

“A little more respect, Mr. Potter. Or do you think yourself above the petty concerns of common courtesy to your elders and betters? Do you require an additional detention to learn that lesson, perhaps?”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” said a genuinely repentant Harry, “I do apologise.” He really should’ve kept his mouth shut. He really didn’t like that old man, but it would be smarter to be more polite when speaking to teacher, and a former Death Eater.

***

Harry lay on his bed reading up on his snake that evening while it chased and ate a few more tiny fish poured into its pool (it was an oddly shaped terracotta bowl, but he’d arranged it decoratively half-buried in some leaf mulch and dirt in the tank to look like a little pond). It insisted its water be warmed up a bit (but not so much it killed the fish). It was a bit bossy for such a tiny creature. All curled up it fit easily in the palm of his hand. It might be a foot long but it was very slender.

_The Rainbow Serpent, or Wonambi, is known by many names to our people, however, these are the two most common names used by the local communities still aware of the continuing existence of this rare and mystical snake which has long been hidden for its protection._

_Legends and stories are still told even by our non-magical kin in the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities about the Rainbow Serpent, and many of them are based in fact. It can indeed summon rain, and while a hatchling or juvenile can only manage a light rain or mist, the fully grown adult can summon powerful localized thunderstorms. It can also burrow powerfully, and while it is rare for them to move boulders of legendary size, it is not unknown for a large adult to push rocks of over a metre in diameter to the surface while burrowing. Its appearance is most striking in sunlight, with a dazzling rainbow shine to its scales that most carers agree is a sight worth the effort of fostering a Wonambi hatchling, despite the risk of water damage to one’s property if it is upset. The mane of “hair” (actually long dorsal scales below the head) only grows in on the adult snake after several sheddings (moultings), and is the darker brown-black of the mature snake, with the typical rainbow shine. The mane is absent in the lighter brown hatchling and juvenile, who have an attractive band of pearlescent scales in its place. The belly remains an iridescent pearl colour throughout its life cycle._

_This species is nocturnal, and semi-aquatic. The length and height of the tank must be at least three-quarters of the snake's total length from head to tip, while the depth must be at least half of the snake's total length. Your snake will require a small pool (of at least a third of its length in diameter) to be content and comfortable, as well as plenty of material to burrow into (a topcoat of eucalypt leaves is recommended). On the reserves the Wonambi is an ambush predator that lairs at billabongs and waterholes in burrows or beneath plants at the water’s edge. The larger adults (who can be up to 6-7m in length) are capable of swallowing a wallaby, kangaroo, or young child whole; this is part of the reason for the traditional aversion to unaccompanied children or adults visiting billabongs among our people (bunyips are also a great danger). Despite its dangers the Rainbow Serpent is revered by many of our tribes, and it is illegal to kill one. Should you not be operating under a typical formal fostering arrangement, and you decide your snake has become too large or troublesome for you to continue to handle, you are required to contact the W.S.P.C.A. (in Australia) or your nearest Australian ambassador (outside Australia) to arrange for it to be returned to a wildlife refuge._

_Your snake will need a variety of live prey to flourish and grow, and it must always be small enough for it to swallow whole. Note that it cannot dislocate its jaw as many Muggle snakes can, so choking is a higher risk for this species; its recurved teeth do not allow it to spit out its food. Young hatchlings will enjoy tadpoles, small fish, and skinks. Juveniles will additionally eat raw eggs, frogs, toads (but not cane toads), rodents, small snakes, and medium sized fish. Adults will eat large fish (barramundi are a favourite), small crocodiles, koalas and drop-bears (if they venture to the ground or low branches), goannas, wombats, wallabies, and kangaroos (including the more dangerous omnivorous variety), and should obviously be kept away from people (wards are recommended rather than fences due to its powerful burrowing skills)._

_A magical environment is crucially recommended for the Wonambi to improve its growth and health. As many of the best habitats have been stolen for grazing and urban settlements, some hatchlings are fostered out to magical households under supervision. While the Wonambi can tolerate a wide variety of climates, it needs warming charms applied to its habitat if the environmental temperature is below 15 degrees. Clutches of eight to ten eggs may be expected under ideal conditions; the shells are highly prized by local Potions Masters (for some cosmetic and fever-reducing potions, and poison antidotes). Trade in Wonambi snakeskin leather (but not naturally shed skins) is illegal and will be prosecuted._

_While similar in appearance in some respects to the Quetzalcoatl of central America, the adult Wonambi is more colourfully iridescent though with a less impressive mane, and lacks the Quetzalcoatl’s ability to fly (water rather than air is the Wonambi’s elemental affinity). It also has a less placid temperament than the Quetzalcoatl, but is significantly smaller in size; the largest Wonambis typically reach an impressive 7m, but that pales in comparison to the 10m Queztalcoatl. Historical efforts to crossbreed these rare species have been unsuccessful, and experimental breeding of the Wonambi is completely banned._

Harry thought it was probably a good thing that the magical community over there was sensible enough to ban people trying to breed a new temperamental storm-summoning snake that could fly and eat people. He wondered how long it took them to figure out that was a bad idea. Weren’t dragons enough? Maybe that was how dragons started. Someone decided to try and mix a crocodile with a bat, and used magic to make the hybrid work somehow. There was a little more information in the booklet about being a snake foster carer that didn’t apply to him, and a note with an official looking stamped letter tucked in the back of the book saying “Harry James Potter” was approved as a permanent owner of a Wonambi.

“ _Out,_ ” hissed his snake demandingly. “ _I want you to carry me_.”

Harry lifted it out onto his wrist obligingly, where it looped its body around him to hold on snugly.

“ _Are you a boy or a girl sssnake? You need a name_.”

“ _I don’t know. I haven’t laid eggss. Maybe I’m a boy? I don’t have a name?_ ”

Well, that was as good a guess as any, Harry supposed. “ _Well, you need a name. Sssomething rainbow-like, perhapss? Opal? Rainbow?”_

 _“Killer? Kangaroo-eater? Death-bringer? Hunter? Kill-crusher? Clever-man-friend?_ ” suggested his snakeling.

“ _Sssomething a little less ssscary and a little shorter, I think_ ,” responded Harry, who didn’t want to have to explain a name like that to his friends. Eventually they settled on “Storm”.

“ _Now we will pick one for you!_ ” his snake excitedly said. His room-mates carefully avoided him and settled into their beds while he had a long hissing discussion about why “Harry”, “Harold”, and “Potter” were perfectly good options and he didn’t need another name to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. His snake liked “Boy Who Lived” and “Lightning” best, and sulked at him when he wouldn’t agree to be called by either of those.

In the morning Harry asked Hermione what the name “Harold” meant (in the optimistic hope she’d read and memorised a baby name book at some point), and luckily she knew. He also dropped off more class notes, which she praised him appreciatively for. After a brief discussion about his real name, he darted back up to the dorm to report back to his snake that it was the name of a famous ruler of England, and meant something like “army commander”. Storm conceded he would call Harry “Harold” or “Commander”.

***

Pansy was disappointed to not see him carrying his snake everywhere, and that it preferred to nap during the day.

“Can’t it nap _on_ you?” she whined.

He promised to bring it to dinner sometimes, which seemed to satisfy her for the time being.

The next night at dinner he attracted a lot of attention with a shimmering little rainbow serpent wrapped around his wrist. He sighed at the gasps and murmuring. The things he did to keep family happy. At least Pansy was enjoying it, judging by the little stream of people who seemed to be casually wandering down her end of the Slytherin table to fetch a particular dish near her and just _happen_ to feel like stopping for a brief chat with her. Lockhart stopped by the Gryffindor table, attracted by the spotlight of attention no doubt.

“Ah, Harry! This is your new pet the teachers have all been talking about, I suppose!”

“Yes sir, it’s a young Rainbow Serpent, or Wonambi. It’s an Australian magical serpent and it’s not poisonous or dangerous,” he explained, which led his teacher to smile happily and take another step or two closer. “Oh, and it was a gift from the Parkinson family,” he added, obedient to the memory of Pansy’s nagging.

Lockhart explained to those nearby that he knew _all_ about many kinds of dangerous creatures, and enthralled the Gryffindors with a couple of tales of yetis and trolls. His blithe unconcern about sitting down near Harry and his snake _did_ seem to reassure people that the serpent and Harry himself were nothing to worry about. Harry nodded appreciatively to him as he left, getting a sparkling smile in return.

The twins on the other hand that week continued their own special brand of helping, and started telling people the evil Dark Lord Harry was going to have his “Serpent of Doom” devour them. The sceptical looks at the pencil-thin snake that would allegedly eat them whole seemed to finally clue in some of the more gullible students that the duo were not _entirely_ serious. They took credit (in doleful voices at their “decreasing success in instilling respect in your minions”) for the lower rate of people bowing to him or running away in fear, but Harry thought at least part of the reason for that was his explicit requests to the Slytherins (including Draco who seemed to hang around all the time now) to ask people to stop bowing to him in the halls.

“I don’t like people bowing to me all the time. I’m not that special,” he’d explained, to their politely sceptical looks. “Look, if I wanted that kind of attention, even if it was justified, I’d be wearing my Heir ring, or boasting about being the ‘Boy Who Lived’. But I’m not, because I really _honestly_ don’t want people to bow to me. So please, let people know? It’s just… embarrassing. And it draws attention I really don’t want.”

They’d nodded wisely, and had agreed to spread the word.

Harry had also now made up a pile of stock letters to send out swiftly in response to fans’ messages. A lot of it was Neville’s words, and one core section read, “I appreciate your message of support, but would prefer to be treated just like any other student whilst I am at Hogwarts.” It was based on Neville’s heavy revision of Pansy’s suggested template, and was signed as Harry Potter, Heir of the Noble House of Potter. It was multi-purpose, covering both those staunchly defending his innocence as the Boy Who Lived to do no wrong, and those who applauded his efforts as the Heir of Slytherin to terrify the Muggle-borns, or who more discreetly merely tried to curry favour in some way. Harry’s experiences both with trying to convince Lockhart of his disinterest in fame, and his failure to convince _far_ too many people that he _wasn’t_ the Heir of Slytherin led him to leave people a mental loophole. They could either interpret his message literally - that he was nothing special, or if they stubbornly refused to budge, they could instead take away from it that he didn’t want to be bothered while still a young student, and read into it hints that he might welcome overtures of support after graduation. Similarly, he was including his family title (which was Pansy’s idea more than Neville’s) but it definitely _didn’t_ include “Heir of Slytherin” of course. Mentioning he was the Potter Heir hopefully nodded at his sympathies for the older formal wizarding traditions, including respecting families. Though hopefully they wouldn’t assume that meant he had anti-Muggle-born attitudes. Anyway, it’d all been made a problem for later, if all went according to plan. And it certainly wouldn’t be a very big problem if he was off at Cambridge studying medicine for years after school.

***

Quirrell was interested to hear about Harry’s new pet, and encouraged him to be appreciative of it and also polite about people’s attempts to be courteous.

“ _Do not be concerned about your friend Ron – his family is not one of note, and if his friendship is so easily lost it was worth little. Instead, treasure the loyalty of those who will support you and your goals in the face of all challenges._

_Be careful with dissuading others from bowing to you. I appreciate you are but young yet, and uncomfortable with the attention. Nor is it something you have been accustomed to living with your Muggle relatives who do not respect you even a fraction as much as you deserve. Remember that wizarding society has at its core a tradition of favours given and received, client and patron families, bribes and gifts. A tendency to vengeance and feuds are the darker side – grudges held long past the point of reason. Be careful who you may offend by refusing their respectful acknowledgement of your skills. So far I believe you are managing it well enough (given Dumbledore’s suppression of the old traditions it is wise not to be too overt), but do take care._

_You might be interested to hear that I had a pet snake myself when I was a young lad. Alas, it did not end well – some other boys killed it for their amusement. I have always been uncommonly fond of snakes. They are more intelligent and less aggressive than commonly thought, and very effective at taking care of irritating vermin on occasion. Do take good care of your snake; if your power and knowledge is sufficient to the task you may wish to place some wards on its tank lest others seek to harm it driven by their petty fears._ ”

The rest of the letter was an interesting discussion of Harry’s birth date. In the Old Ways he would be called a “Son of the Earth” due to being born on Lughnasadh eve – a propitious day of power. Quirrell asked if he’d ever experienced any particular affinity with Earth, but Harry wrote in his response that while he liked gardening if he had to pick an element it would be air, as he found flying very natural. His reply letter also included his thoughts on the separation of Muggle and magical society, as Quirrell had asked him about that.

_"I don’t really know what’s best. I think both are quite dangerous to each other, so separation is probably wise. I think it’s cruel for magical people to go around wiping people’s memories all the time to maintain the Statute of Secrecy, though. Nor do I like magical children all being forced to go to Hogwarts or have their powers bound (somehow) and memories of magic erased._

_Squibs aren’t allowed at Hogwarts apparently, so I wonder how they cope? There are plenty of subjects they could still study, but they don’t seem appreciated here (to say the least!) so I think they’d be better off adopted out into Muggle society at a young age. I’ve heard there’s a banned spell that can check for magical talent, and I think it would be best to use it a lot more again, but with kinder results for the Squibs. Squibs could be adopted by Muggle families who would love them, and if a Muggle family can’t accept their witch or wizard child and are going to mistreat them then they shouldn’t be allowed to keep them. And then the child would get to learn magic and wizarding culture from a young age. But if the Muggle-born’s family is happy, they should get to stay together, but could visit the magical world earlier if they want._

_Hermione always worries she’s so behind everyone else (even though she’s top of lots of classes) but I think it’s missing out on the culture that’s hurting her most. All those little bits of etiquette and cultural ways. I find it confusing too, sometimes. I think Muggle-borns and Muggle-raised children (like me) should have a patron family they can turn to for assistance in society, like dealing with goblins or getting them magical medical help (like Creevey and Finch-Fletchley need right now). Then they’d have someone they can turn to for advice, and they wouldn’t be so discriminated against for jobs because they have someone to help them. I think Hogwarts should also teach Muggle school subjects, so Muggle-borns who don’t like it here can leave and get proper jobs, instead of getting angry at the world that took them away from all they knew but won’t respect or employ them. I do like Pansy and Daphne and the others but they can be very mean to Hermione and other Muggle-borns. The prejudice is pretty bad. Even the nice “Light” families like the Weasleys are prejudiced against Squibs and it doesn’t sound like they ever go out into the Muggle world.._

_It seems to me it’s a big risk to the wizarding world to not manage Muggle-borns and Muggle Studies better. It doesn’t seem like people know about video-cameras? And television? There’s new computers keeping records everywhere these days – erasing people’s minds of someone doing a spell isn’t enough to keep things secret anymore. Given how pure-bloods struggle with the idea of electricity, I think it’s a disaster waiting to happen. If those in power don’t wake up soon and improve education about Muggle things and integrate Muggle-borns better, I think the world is going to find out about magic and it’s going to be big trouble. The wizarding world could benefit from a bit more science, too. The level of medical knowledge here is still stuck in the Dark Ages!! Have you considered seeking Muggle medical help for your condition? There might be something doctors could do for you that Healers don’t even have the knowledge to consider as an option._

_Birth shouldn’t matter. It’s power that counts, not who your parents were. Anyway, I think there’s probably no such thing as Muggle-borns. Just people whose ancestry from a Squib line has not been uncovered yet. I think magical talent might be carried on a recessive gene. I told Hermione she should find out if she’s related to the Dagworth-Granger family (of Potioneering fame), but she doesn’t want to, which is a shame. She says it would be pandering to prejudice, but she’ll think about it and talk it over with her parents. What do you think? Maybe there wouldn’t even **be** blood prejudice if people realised there’s no such thing as Muggle-borns. I think it would be interesting to study one day when I’ve learnt more about genetics, and find out if that theory’s true or not. And to do some statistical studies of whether interbreeding with Muggles (or Muggle-borns) does indeed strengthen the children’s level of magical power, as you suggested once. I haven’t forgotten! It was a very interesting idea and I’d like to study that too one day, maybe. It seems plausibly true, based on what I’ve learnt this year about the risks of in-breeding for susceptibility to recessive genetic conditions. _

_I used to plan to leave the magical world as soon as I could. Not that I told anyone except my family. But to tell you a secret – I’m starting to like it here. I think maybe I could do both. Live normally, but study medicine and genetics where the societies overlap; be a doctor **and** a Healer. We’ve got career advice meetings coming up soon with our Heads of Houses, and I’m going to find out what I need to choose for subjects to be a Healer. I can guess most of it already, but I don’t know what grades I need. Neville thinks it’s a great idea, Pansy thinks I should go into politics, and I know Hermione worries that I don’t have the intelligence to get into Medicine (though she’s too polite to say so right out). What do you think? I am smarter than she thinks, you know. I just don’t like drawing attention to myself. Something Professor Lockhart is still struggling to grasp. And to answer your question, of **course** you are still my mentor of choice! If I had to pick a substitute for you it would be Professor Flitwick – he’s really encouraging in class and it’s odd but nice to have someone after me all the time to do better. Professor Lockhart is a really nice man, but a remarkably poor teacher. I think his books are like 90% fiction. There’s no way he did all the stuff he wrote about. You are the only adult I know who seems to care about something other than my grade (like Professor Flitwick), or what they can get out of me by associating with me (like Mr. Parkinson or Professor Lockhart). Oh, I suppose Professor McGonagall tries, here and there, but usually only when I or Dumble-bore encourage her to. Did I tell you how he was taking money from my vault without asking? It’s true!! He was a signatory on my vault but I put a stop to that. No more getting me a broom and pretending it’s a gift from Professor McGonagall, or padding out my Hogwarts fees with extra donations. So no, he’s **definitely** not someone I trust, nor do you need to worry so that I’ll be telling him or anyone else about our correspondence._

_No, I don’t burn your letters, and I’d rather not start. But I **do** hide them in a secret compartment in the bottom of my trunk which can only be opened with a password. So that’s pretty secure. Only Pansy knows it’s even there._

_I’m sorry this letter isn’t as formally phrased as my last one; I don’t have time to re-write it because I have a lot of homework, so I hope you don’t mind."_

Harry tucked Quirrell’s letter away in his trunk’s secret compartment with the others, observed only by Storm, who certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone about it. Storm was interested to hear about Professor Quirrell, and dubbed him “Snake-friend”, liking his evident approval of both Harry’s Parseltongue skills and Storm himself. Before sending off his reply Harry added a quick postscript to his letter about Storm’s new name for Professor Quirrell – Harry thought he would probably find it amusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s snake is based off the extant Sunbeam Snake (Xenopeltis Unicolour), the extinct Wonambi Australian python, and the legends of the Rainbow Serpent of course. The adult form also has aspects of the D’Albert’s python (head/body shape), and the Hairy Bush Viper (Atheris hispida) for the sharp dorsal scale ‘mane’. See more snake pictures at http://members.optusnet.com.au/~pelari/potter/
> 
> Wondering what Lucius was up to last chapter? Gifting Harry with a (non-enchanted) diary for Yule gave Draco the opening to (under his father’s instruction) ask Harry *if he had a diary already* and report back what Harry said. Perhaps a certain black diary belonging to one Tom Riddle has gone astray at Hogwarts. Or perhaps Harry, mysteriously powerful survivor of the Dark Lord’s killing curse and gifted with his power of Parseltongue, might hint that he *once* had a diary that he entrusted to a friend long ago and that he hopes it is still safe. Or perhaps Harry would say none of these things, being a mysterious young Dark Lord in his own right. Lucius is fishing for information, and won’t hear as much as he hoped, but enough to suggest that at the very least, Harry is not aware that Tom’s diary is at Hogwarts *and angry about it*.


	17. Caught!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry celebrates Imbolc with the Second Year traditionalists, but it doesn't go at all as he expected. Secrets are discovered!

**_February 1993_ **

Hermione was still in the hospital wing at the end of January and Harry and Neville visited her together, while Ron stopped by on rare occasions of his own. Apparently Hermione wasn’t very happy with the quality of his notes for DADA and Astronomy (“Not half so good as yours and Neville’s”), though she appreciated he was trying. Ron still wasn’t talking to Harry, and insisted on calling him “Potter”, which Neville said was a pretty bad social cut to a former friend. On one of their evening visits, Harry invited them both to join him for the upcoming Imbolc celebration on the evening of the 31st.

“But Imbolc is on the 1st of February,” Neville said, confused.

“Technically the celebrations start at sunset on the day proceeding the holiday and go until the next sunset. Like Halloween or Samhain – sunset on the 31st of October,” Harry explained. “The student groups pick either day – they like to spread it around a bit amongst the year levels.”

“I appreciate you’re being open and inclusive about this Harry,” Hermione said, glancing distractedly at Storm curled around his wrist, “but it’s really not my thing. I might not go to church very often or anything, but it makes me kind of uncomfortable to think about doing nature worship Wiccan stuff.”

Harry spent a little time talking about what kinds of things went on, and how he didn’t think it was Dark. She listened with interest, but wasn’t swayed to his point of view.

“Look Harry, I’m not saying it’s Dark, and I know you’re just trying to get in touch with your roots, and I’ve come to accept that as being quite reasonable. But that doesn’t mean I’m always going to join in. For me it’s just too tied in with the Muggle-born prejudice. I’m not sure I’ll be out of here in time anyway, and are Muggle-borns even allowed to go?”

“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. “No-one’s talked about their blood status except for Ernie, and that was only to say that while he’s a pure-blood he doesn’t think it matters that much, just that you’re magical.”

“Ernie?”

“Ernest Macmillan, in Hufflepuff. Remember, I tried to introduce you one day in the library, but you snapped at him because he tried to kiss your hand. He was just trying to be polite, you know.”

“Oh,” said Hermione quietly. “I guess it was just... with Pansy there being snippy at me…”

“I get it. Look, I know she can be really rude for no good reason. I _know_ that. She’s prejudiced against Muggle-borns and Muggles. But she’s _family_ , and family’s important. And _she_ likes me and actually wants to spend time with me.”

“What?” said Hermione, sounding surprised.

“What? I can’t have a family member who likes me?” Harry said, feeling a bit hurt. There was no reason for her to sound so shocked about it.

“No, I just thought… never mind. I’m glad you see how she is about Muggle-borns, anyway. I thought… I thought you kind of agreed with her. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes… about cultural and manners stuff. It’s good to know and doesn’t hurt anyone. But when she hints about Muggle-borns being less worthy than someone from a pure-blood family? Absolutely not. You’re a great witch, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. And ‘Muggles’ aren’t any less human or worthy of respect either.”

“Oh Harry!” Hermione sniffed as she choked back some tears, and hugged him – Harry froze in panic and looked at Neville for help, but Neville just shrugged and spread his hands helplessly.

“ _Is she attacking? Should I threaten her with a big hissss or make it rain on her?_ ” asked Storm. “ _She’s **much** too big to eat_ …” he added apologetically.

“ _No!_ ” hissed Harry urgently. “ _She’s just hugging – kind of like how you are curled around me without hurting me. Don’t ssscare her, please!_ ”

Harry translated for Hermione, who was curious to know what she’d said. “He was wondering what was wrong and said he hoped you’re alright,” lied Harry smoothly. No need to worry anyone.

“What a sweetheart!” Hermione sniffed happily. “Can I touch him?”

“ _She’s going to pat you, so ssstay nice and ssstill – she wantss to make friendss._ ”

Storm tolerated her pats with good humour, and appreciated the translated praise about his beautiful scales. She wasn’t the first person to ask to see him, but it was usually the Slytherins, or some of the older Gryffindors who wanted to prove their bravery, who actually touched him.

The boys escaped soon after that, and Neville let Harry know that he might like to come along to the Beltane celebration, and asked if maybe Harry could check if that would be alright with everyone; he didn’t want to go without an explicit invitation. For this occasion, he would cover for Harry’s absence if Ron asked after him, and tell people he was off doing a study session with the Slytherins.

“He’s _awfully_ suspicious of you at the moment, Harry. I think you’ll want someone to vouch for you. I know he raised his complaints about Storm to Professor McGonagall, but I would venture that she doesn’t believe him about you being the Heir. So that’s something to draw comfort from.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Hey, you remember Eloise Midgen? She says she wants to come along for Imbolc, since she liked the Samhain celebration with a few of the others. You know, the one I organised but didn’t get to go to in the end. Pansy and Draco say it’s fine; she hasn’t dobbed on anyone since then so they think she’ll be a good addition to the group. So I think you’ll be fine too, you know? But I’ll double check for you.”

***

The Imbolc gathering was at a different location to last year; apparently the incoming first years had their old spot. As they all gathered around the dark shore jostling around to each find a good position where they could focus on sending on their magical energy into the lake, Harry almost lost a year of his life when Snape strode forward out of the darkness suddenly to appear in front of him like a terrifying giant bat, black robes swirling around him.

“Potter! Just what do you think _you’re_ doing here?!”

Harry’s eyes widened in panic. He knew they weren’t really supposed to be celebrating the quarter festivals – Dumbledore had banned them years ago, and the others had warned him more than once that the teachers shouldn’t find out about their celebrations. He’d have to spin his best lies, and fast. But how? He needed to cover for the diverse group of people, and divert attention away from what was going on. He had it! Snape would always stick up for his favourites being picked on.

“Ernie and Stephen have been having trouble with their Freezing Spells, so I agreed to help them practice. A couple of their classmates tagged along, and Hermione told me Eloise needed help too. It was my idea to practice out here freezing the lake edge because it shouldn’t bother anyone or wreck anything, and we decided to bring a bit of a picnic since we were out so late. Uh… Pansy and her friends stopped to say hello when she saw us out here because she’s my cousin you know, and then _Malfoy_ showed up with his goons, and told us she shouldn’t be associating with us. Malfoy ruined _everything_ , like he always does, the prat,” Harry said, injecting a note of resentful venom into his voice for the last part. He glared angrily at Draco for verisimilitude – hopefully Draco was smart enough to play along. Snape would surely bite, and get distracted defending Draco against Harry. He’d probably end up with detention, but the others should be safe.

Snape stared at him silently with blank uncomprehending eyes. Draco didn’t leap in to support his story like he’d hoped, but the quick-witted Stephen Cornfoot backed him up.

“That’s right, we just needed a quiet place to practice spells, and then all these others came barging in, not that it was any of their business. Are we out of bounds, sir? Harry said it was fine, but Draco said we were out of bounds – he just came up and starting picking a fight with Harry.”

“Harry, Stephen, I ah… apologise for your unnecessary current distress,” said Pansy, looking very embarrassed. “Draco _invited_ Professor Snape to join us. He takes turns with the different year groups’ celebrations when he can. I am sorry I didn’t think to warn you.”

“I apologise also,” Draco said stiffly.

Harry, Eloise, and Stephen looked at each other warily, as did Ernie and Lily, who didn’t seem to have heard about it either. Nott, Millicent, and Daphne had thin lips like they were exerting some effort to not laugh at them all.

Goyle didn’t seem to feel the same compunction, and was chuckling to himself. “The look on your face, Potter!” he said, vastly amused. Which seemed to set Millicent off, who started snickering.

Draco had tilted his head and was looking at Harry puzzledly. “Why were you were trying to get me in trouble?”

“Professor Snape would never give _you_ a detention for an argument with me,” explained Harry, looking warily at Snape.

“Ahh,” said Draco, his eyes lighting up with comprehension as he presumably grasped at least part of Harry’s plan. “I see, thank you Harry.” He nodded politely at Harry.

“You’re here… to participate,” said Snape slowly, who’d been silently watching and cataloguing every detail of their interactions. “You tried, in fact, to cover for everyone and shift attention away from what you were up to.”

“For a Gryffindor, he can be rather Slytherin,” said Nott, looking pointedly at the snake wound around Harry’s left wrist. Harry shifted uncomfortably and poked and pushed Storm back up under his robe’s sleeve.

“Carry on, then,” said Snape. “Fear not, I will not be assigning any detentions _this_ evening.” He drew what looked like a round flat grey stone (with a hole bored right through the middle) from a pocket in his robes which he threw into the lake as an offering.

“ _I’m hungry, and thiss is dull_ ,” hissed Storm unhappily from his robe sleeve.

“ _You can go hunting if you like, Ssstorm_ ,” hissed Harry back to him, “ _but don’t be too long._ ”

“ _I think perhapss I **will** go hunting_,” he said, and slithered away quickly into the undergrowth at the water’s edge when Harry put him down. “ _It should be fun!_ ”

“Be careful out there!” he said worriedly.

“You stopped hissing,” said Pansy interestedly.

“Oh, I think I usually only speak Parseltongue when I’m actually looking at him. It’s hard to tell the difference, but I’m getting the hang of it. It’s harder to speak it without a snake in front of me,” he explained. He glanced over at Snape, still sure that his least favourite teacher would find an opportunity to get him in trouble. Snape met his eye with a piercing look, and Harry found himself thinking about other times he’d attended celebrations with his year group that followed the Old Ways. It was odd socialising with people some of whom (like Theodore Nott) he wasn’t allowed to even be on a first name basis with and usually never talked to. But the festivals were fun, and resonated for him on a spiritual level. Snape blinked and looked away.

After they’d made the lake surface shimmer with magic in the moonlight, Snape settled down to chat quietly with Draco and Morag MacDougal, and the evening passed peacefully, if with less carefree chatter than before Snape had arrived. Harry clearly wasn’t the only one who found it awkward socialising with a teacher watching – most people scattered in fairly short order. Harry was one of the last to depart, as he had to wait for Storm to return safely before leaving. Snape was also lingering, and after a while it was just the two of them, which Harry found _immensely_ uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t abandon Storm. He might worry if he returned and couldn’t find Harry – he was just a baby, really. What would he do if his snake was lost? He hadn’t really thought this through. Harry hoped he was alright.

“Potter, are you not concerned about practicing traditions that some would call Dark?” Snape asked curiously, breaking the uncomfortable silence with an uncomfortable conversation.

“I think they’re just traditions, not Dark magic,” said Harry stiffly. “And my father practised them, I think. I like to think my parents would approve.”

“James Potter a follower of the Old Ways!” snorted Snape. “Never. I assure you I knew him, and in his observances he was Light as Light can be.”

Harry felt crushed. “But there’s a small Circle on the grounds where Potter Manor once stood - I’ve seen it. And I know he wasn’t Christian. My parents got married on Beltane – that can’t be a co-incidence.”

Snape winced, then looked thoughtful. “I don’t believe your father followed even the more innocuous traditions, but it’s possible some of your Potter ancestors did. Your mother now – she was interested in some of the old rituals.”

Harry perked back up. “Was she?”

Snape paused to turn a stick into a kettle, and filled it with water via a quick “ _Aguamenti_ ”. He placed it over a quickly lit fire on a magically improvised metal tripod. Tea leaves he retrived from a tiny tin canister cached in one of his pockets. Harry thought it was a pity there wasn’t an easier tea-making spell. If there was, maybe it didn’t taste as good.

“Yes,” Snape said at last, “whilst in school I don’t believe she was a follower of the Old Ways, but she did have a certain curiosity about them. Which was fostered further during her study of Ancient Runes, and some aspects of magical theory in Charms.”

Harry smiled softly. So few people could tell him about his parents, or were willing to do so. “Can you tell me anything else about her? I’ve really only had one other person tell me anything.”

As Snape’s tea was steeping, he obligingly told Harry a little more about his mother. “She certainly did have a lot of talent for Charms – I think she ranked top of the class most years. She loved Potions too, though didn’t enjoy chopping up the more noisome ingredients so I… Well. She managed when she had to. She was talented enough for Slughorn, the Potions professor back then to invite her into his ‘Slug Club’, which was considered by many to be quite an honour. Ancient Runes eclipsed Charms as one of her favourites once she commenced that course of study, and while she often obtained an Outstanding for that subject she was not top of the class as she often got distracted by reading more about runes instead of working on her assignments. She was Head Girl in her final year. She hated bullying, and she found Quidditch a ridiculous sport, but grew to tolerate it later when-” Snape cut off abruptly there and changed the topic.

“So you say Miss Parkinson is your cousin – some more distant relative of your father’s, on your grandmother’s side I expect? I don’t believe there’s a connection with the Potters,”

“Yes, she’s my third cousin via my paternal grandmother’s family, the Blacks. We have the same great-great-grandparents.”

Snape nodded and took a sip of his plain black tea.

“And we’re second cousins as well, through the Parkinsons in my mother’s family.”

Snape’s eyes bulged as he choked on his tea with some unattractive gagging and spluttering noises, barely managing not to spit it everywhere.

“ _I beg your pardon_?!”

Harry eyed him warily. “I suppose it’s not commonly known as yet, though obviously my close friends in Slytherin all know. My mother’s mother, maiden name Heather Parkinson, was a Squib. Grandma Heather’s parents are also Pansy’s great-grandparents – we’re second cousins.”

“Lily Evans was a _half-blood_?! I don’t believe it. She would’ve told me! If only I’d known!” Snape looked quite upset.

“Why would she tell you, if she even knew? Obviously you must have been in school at the same time, but were you friends, sir?”

“Yes, once… long ago. You didn’t know that already?” Harry shook his head. Snape wrapped his cloak around himself and gazed into the fire, clearly trying to get his emotions back under control. “Everyone spoke of her as a very talented Muggle-born – she certainly never contradicted them. Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“No sir, not unless Pansy’s lied about her family. And I don’t think she has – she was actually quite embarrassed at first to have a Squib in the family, and Muggle relations. I guess Grandma Heather never told anyone. My aunt said that she swore never to speak about her family.”

“An oath, perhaps,” said Snape, with a brooding expression. “Not magically binding, unless she swore an Unbreakable Vow, which some Squibs can do. An ordinary oath is extremely dishonourable to break – those from traditional families never would. It’s also possible the Ministry selectively Obliviated her if she was cast out to live amongst Muggles, bereft of the protection of her family.”

“Either of those might explain it.” Harry didn’t know what else to say to him – he seemed quite upset, and he didn’t know why. So they sat for a moment in very awkward silence, until Storm slithered out of the bushes for a happy reunion with his relieved master.

“ _Harold! I found many tasty ssslippery fish to eat hiding in the reeds_!” he hissed happily, coiling around his wrist and burrowing into the sleeve where it could bask in his body heat. “ _Return uss to the ssstone burrow now, please. I am full_.”

“ _Alright_ ,” hissed Harry back. “ _I’ll just sssay farewell to my teacher. He’ss in an odd mood. He just found out about my mother having magical relativesss, and has taken the newsss ssstrangely_.”

“Well, good night then,” he said awkwardly to Snape. “And you know, it really doesn’t matter.”

“What?”

“That mum was actually a half-blood. It doesn’t matter. Not now, and not then. She was a witch – that should’ve been enough for everyone.”

“You don’t understand the pressures the war brought to everyone,” snapped Snape, his eyes glimmering darkly in the firelight. “I hope you never shall. People killed, and people died, over that definition that ‘doesn’t matter’.”

Harry decided he’d pushed his luck far enough this evening, and that discretion was the better part of valour. With a muttered, “Yes, sir,” he hurried away into the darkness, heading back to Hogwarts.

***

Hermione was out of the hospital wing, de-whiskered and fur-free, at the start of February – which was a relief to the others who didn’t need to make notes to her exacting personal standards any more.

In Potions class this year Harry usually worked with Neville. They had a system going now of a good division of tasks. Neville would prep any plant ingredients, while Harry did the more fiddly (and squelchy) animal part preparation, and all the measuring. They would then share half of the prepared ingredients each. They brewed in their own cauldrons most of the time, though occasionally Snape marked each bench on a single potion when ingredients were expensive enough to warrant conservation of ingredients. Harry had written notes on how to alter potions most safely in the margins using the invisible ink Pansy gave him last Yule. He cast _Aparecium_ to reveal his notes before each class to revise, then vanished them again before setting foot inside the classroom.

In Potions one morning, Harry hummed quietly to himself while slicing three slugs into wafer thin cross-sections for Neville, which he pushed over to his side of the desk. He then sliced three and a half slugs for himself, in larger, more roughly cut slices. Neville in turn pushed over a portion of powdered dried borage stems, which Harry carefully removed a little of after weighing, before adding the powder to his cauldron.

As he handed in the bottled potion at the end of class, Snape said in a drawling voice, “Pathetic, Mr. Potter. You be remaining after class to explain this waste of valuable ingredients that you allege is a potion.”

Harry frowned. It was a perfect “Acceptable” standard potion. Surely the man could cope with that level of brewing? _Must_ he keep his grade to Dreadful, until he got independent testing for OWLs? Harry waited patiently at the front desk while students filed out. Neville gave him a sympathetic and worried look on his way out, but Harry wasn’t too worried – Snape probably just wanted to shout at him for a while about how pathetic he was. It always cheered Uncle Vernon up when he was in a mood. No adult’s good attitude could be relied on to last forever – clearly their quiet moment of camaraderie at the lake side was a temporary truce only.

Once it was just the two of them Harry braced himself calmly for the expected tirade, but it never came. Instead, Snape came out with some startlingly accurate accusations about his performance.

“Why are you doing your best preparation work for your partner, and a deliberately poor effort for your own ingredients?”

“I’m not, Professor! I’m trying my hardest, I promise,” he said, looking and feeling rather startled, while lying through his teeth.

Snape sneered at him. “That was a pathetic excuse. I am _well aware_ you are deliberately ruining your potions – I have been watching you most carefully the past week and a half. So I will ask again and I expect a better answer this time. Why the deliberate sabotage? You should be doing better. You could improve your grade substantially if you were as diligent with your own ingredient preparation as you are with your partner’s.”

“What grade do you _want_ me to get?”

“An Outstanding would be best.”

“No it wouldn’t, I brewed you a perfect potion last year; you accused me and Ron of cheating, vanished my potion, and gave us a T,” rebutted Harry. “So what grade do you really _want_? What will make you happy? How about an A – I was planning on that for this year? An E? I could do that if you like. Just… let it go. There’s no need to go discussing this with anyone – let’s make a deal about it, alright? A mutual exchange of favours.”

“You’re asking what the price of my silence is?” asked Snape with amazement, either at his audacity or the sneakiness of it all. Perhaps both. His face firmed with a sneer. “Straight Os. Brew every potion to an Outstanding level, or I’ll be discussing my concerns about your behaviour with the Headmaster.”

“No, it’s too soon for an O,” retorted Harry. “It would draw attention. An Acceptable would be best, or Exceeds Expectations at most, no higher. Outstandings in Fifth Year.”

“You arrogant little snot! You’ve never brewed better than an Acceptable, and you’re so sure you could brew Outstanding potions?”

“Of course, Professor,” said Harry with false meekness, “you’re right, my potions just aren’t that good. I’m going to try my best for an A this year, that’s all I meant. I’m not that smart but maybe I’ll keep getting better with lots of hard work. I’m very sorry, sir.”

It unintentionally cut Snape’s rant off more effectively than claims of confidence in his brewing would have. He _knew_ the boy was failing deliberately. He _knew_ he was sneakier than he looked, and if it must be admitted, not as arrogant as he could be. And Harry _had_ brewed a perfect potion – and he’d even reminded him of it a moment ago. He’d been covertly watching him every opportunity he’d had since Imbolc - his ingredient preparation was close to flawless, but never for his own cauldron. Snape had also noticed his tendency to add superfluous stirs to the cauldron. He’d seen it before but previously he’d written it off as a bad habit – a tendency to finish off a series of deasil stirs with a single widdershins stir, and vice versa. Or stirring a couple less times than indicated. He’d assumed it was an accident, but what if it was intentional? It would be a very simple and effective way to negatively affect a potion’s consistency and potency without creating unfortunate or unpredictable side effects.

“You will brew to an Outstanding level,” he offered more calmly, “and I will grade your work as Acceptable, as you prefer. It’s best I not show favouritism to you in any case, as the Headmaster asked.”

Harry thought there was no fear of Snape being mistaken for showing favouritism to him, but didn’t want to start a fruitless argument by saying so. He was surprised backing down hadn’t worked to settle things like he hoped – it always did with Uncle Vernon. He liked to see Harry apologise and put himself down, even if it wasn’t logical. A new strategy then - time to bring out his big gun, since he was getting a bit nervous with Dumbledore’s name brought into the conversation. And he didn’t want to have to try and pass off perfect potions in class as being Acceptable level.

“You know, there’s no need to go talking to Dumbledore or anyone else about my grades or habits in Potions, or demand a higher standard,” he suggested in return. “You wouldn’t want Dumbledore learning about your secretive quarter yearly visits to the woods, now would you?”

“You’re _blackmailing_ me?” hissed Snape incredulously. He’d been wrong – more wrong than he’d thought possible. The boy was _nothing_ like his father. He drew himself up straight, giving his most imposing look as he sneered down at him. “I think you would suffer more than I, Potter, should mutual revelations of that kind be made.”

“I think not,” rebutted Harry smoothly. He was actually feeling quite scared, but doing his best not to show it. “Perhaps I might face detention, or expulsion, which I do not fear, as I have both the funds and the willingness to transfer to another school. I am a child, and my punishment would accordingly be lighter. Would you retain your job, in the face of accusations of teaching students forbidden Dark magic rituals? And the investigations that might follow?”

“Masterfully put,” said Snape, with grudging admiration, “but while frowned upon, the Old traditions we practise here at Hogwarts are not technically illegal. I would not face dismissal, but merely a talking-to with expressions of sad disapproval and disappointment. I have weathered such talks before, and no doubt will again.” There was a bit of prevarication there, but Snape was confident Harry was not knowledgeable or perceptive enough to spot it. “You would also face the scorn and guilt resulting from exposing your friends’ and cousin’s activities, as well as further blackening your own rather currently tarnished reputation.”

Harry was disappointed – his trump card had failed. “Oh. Well then, where do we stand?” he asked cautiously, since Snape was continuing to speak calmly to him.

“As I stated before – you will, if you can, brew to an O level. If, and only if, you can maintain that grade will I be amenable to your _request_ to not speak of your grades or habits to Dumbledore or indeed any other teacher here. And you may choose what grade I give you provided you have earned that or better – an A, while ridiculously low, would indeed attract less attention than a sudden improvement in your grade, so I am willing to accede to that request. And we continue a mutual silence on the matter of festival participation.”

Harry nodded with relief, offering his hand to shake in formal agreement. “I will brew to a standard that you would give your Slytherin students an O for, sir,” he said, which Snape found a cunning little extra bit of definition. “And I’ll take an A this year, thanks.”

 _How did that boy end up in Gryffindor instead of Slytherin? The hat must be going senile. No, he’s nothing like his father at all_ , Snape thought as he shook Harry’s hand. _Sadly, not much like his mother, either. He reminds me of someone though, but I can’t put my finger on who._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! It's been a long wait to have someone catch Harry out on his study habits! I know some of you have been waiting to see how things would develop with Snape - finally, some answers! Let me know if you liked this twist.
> 
> Thank you to my Guest reviewer last chapter who liked my portrayal of Percy. :) He might be an overly fussy stickler for the rules, but you know, he *is* a diligent prefect and head boy (next year) who tries to look after the younger students. Especially compared to a certain other Weasley who became a prefect in canon. ;)
> 
> If you're waiting for Hermione to be *perfect* in my fic, it'll be a long wait. Neither she, nor anyone else in my fic, will be portrayed without flaws.


	18. Love is in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day shenanigans! And Harry enacts a plan he hopes will help the petrified students.

**_February 1993_ **

The students of Hogwarts were clearly becoming more polarized as rumours and gossip spread about Harry. There was one group that either sneered, watched him suspiciously, or scurried away when they saw him (a few stray jinxes that hit him from nowhere, he laid the blame for at such students’ doors). And there was a second group who bowed or nodded respectfully in the halls, or were overly friendly to him (the bowing was less in crowds now, but they still did it if there weren’t many other students around). There seemed to only be a scant few left in the last and smallest group; those who treated him normally, who believed that he _wasn’t_ the Heir of Slytherin, or who just weren’t bothered either way by the thought. Any of _their_ owled missives got personalised and genuinely appreciative responses. Most of the teachers were among the last group thankfully, which meant classes were still bearable. Heck, Professor Binns hadn’t even noticed the controversy; he still hadn’t even learnt Harry’s name and still called him “Black” (or on rare occasions “Perkins” for some unknown reason). Unfortunately some students seemed to be taking that as a judgement about Harry being a Dark wizard, rather than him being mistaken for some ancestor or long lost relative from that family by an inattentive ghost.

Harry suspected that Snape’s increasingly polite attitude to him in class was having the side effect of encouraging the belief among Slytherins that he was the Heir. Snape wasn’t praising him, but neither was he picking on him or taking points any more. He just watched him a lot. He didn’t _think_ Snape thought he was the Heir, but it was really hard to tell for sure. He thought it more likely that Snape just approved of him more now he knew Harry was a fellow adherent of the Old Ways, and better at Potions than he’d suspected. He hoped Snape would honour their deal and not talk to Dumbledore or anyone else about his Potions grade. So far, his potions had been up to scratch, earning a grade of “an adequately Acceptable standard” which he guessed was Snape’s code for them being actually Outstanding. Hermione had spotted a couple that he’d handed in, and was starting to get grumpy about Snape’s bias against him and was talking about officially complaining to Professor McGonagall about it; he told her not to worry about it but what looked on the surface like unfair marking was clearly really bugging her on his behalf.

“It is just his way,” Neville said with a shrug to Hermione. “Harry knows Snape will never give him an O, so he is simply counting on the OWLs and NEWTs being run by independent examiners. So it honestly does _not matter to him_ what Potions grade he gets at Hogwarts before then.” Harry was a bit surprised that Neville had pieced it together, but he guess they’d talked about Potions and his career plans enough for him to figure it out.

“Really?” said Hermione, sounding shocked. “But won’t your family be disappointed with only average grades when you could be getting top marks? I know you could do better in some subjects if you just tried a bit more on your essays. Except maybe in Potions. Professor Snape is _so_ biased towards his Slytherins.”

Harry gave a twisted smile. His family used to be quite the opposite. “No. They’ll just be satisfied that they’ve improved. An Acceptable grade is better than Dreadful, after all.”

“My father used to sign me up for some kind of summer camp or tutoring program if I ‘didn’t do my best’. Well, if the wizarding world had them he still might. But it doesn’t. I guess you’re lucky to not be under any pressure to excel.”

“I make my own pressure. As needed.” It was truer than it sounded. No-one in his life or at Hogwarts really wanted Harry to do well except Professor Flitwick, and Quirrell when he’d been around (his letters were always encouraging though). Now perhaps he could add Snape to the list, but he wasn’t too sure there – perhaps he just wanted to watch Harry fail more spectacularly than before, so he could renege on their deal at the earliest opportunity.

***

While it wasn’t a traditional wizarding holiday, Pansy had clearly decided in her usual high-handed fashion that the lead up to Valentine’s Day was a good time to work on Harry’s fashion sense again. She’d asked to meet up in the library, but was surprised when she showed up to find Harry already sitting at a library table, with Hermione and Neville sitting at the next table along.

“I see you brought some friends,” Harry said, spying Draco, Crabbe and Goyle accompanying the cluster of girls. “So did I.” He gestured politely at Neville and Hermione who were, as he’d asked earlier, quietly working on homework and going to do their best to ignore any insults. Hermione was pessimistic about his chances of getting his groups of friends to integrate, but had said she appreciated the effort he was making to try and include her, and in planning to confront Pansy and Daphne’s prejudice. Pansy looked like she was in shock, and he tried hard not to let the smugness and glee he felt on the inside show on the surface. Did she think she was the only one allowed to invite people into their circle? The Slytherins were convinced he was the Heir and were being extra respectful right now – it was time to use that.

“Draco Malfoy, Heir of the Sacred House of Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, may I formally introduce my friends Neville Longbottom, Heir of the Noble House of Longbottom, and Hermione Granger, whom I count as friends and allies of the Potter family,” he said very formally with a wave at the two of them, who nodded at the Slytherins.

Crabbe turned to Draco with a frown. “You didn’t say we’d have to sit with a Mu-” he cut off mid-word as Draco kicked him (not particularly discreetly but the thought was clearly there). “Ow!”

“Make an exception,” hissed Draco to Crabbe, not quietly enough to avoid being overheard. “Longbottom, Granger, it’s a pleasure,” he said more loudly, with a tiny nod of his head (to those of lower rank, noted Harry, and with no kiss for Hermione’s hand).

“They won’t be sitting with us,” said Pansy hesitantly, looking at how they were settled in at a different table to Harry.

“Not _today_ ,” he said, meaningfully.

The other girls sat down at the table when Draco did, and Pansy eventually sat too, though as far away from Neville and Hermione’s table as she could get. There wasn’t room for Crabbe and Goyle, though.

“Where do we sit?” Goyle asked Draco.

Draco looked at Harry. Harry gave a sideways jerk of his head towards Neville and Hermione.

“You’ll sit with them,” Draco said, pointing at their table. And grumbling a little under their breath, they went and sat at the second table, on Neville’s side.

“So, you need to refine your sense of sartorial elegance and learn how to tie a cravat properly in a variety of ways to suit different occasions,” Pansy pronounced grandly, opting to ignore Neville and Hermione rather than make a fuss, to Harry’s poorly-concealed relief. “Mother wrote to say so, and mother is always right in matters of dress.”

“Her mother is a busybody,” grouched Millicent. “She’s never happy with how anyone dresses or acts.”

“ _My_ mother is perfectly elegant, unlike _some_ people’s,” said Pansy cattily.

“Slytherins!” Daphne called out in a sing-song tone, and the two subsided with mutual sighs of exasperation. Harry liked the Slytherins’ “no public fights” rule. The Dursleys and he had the same kind of system, though not so explicitly stated. You could rant, whine and bicker at home, but in public or around guests you acted like angels.

Grudgingly admitting her lack of skill in the matter of cravats, Pansy had once again enlisted male help for Harry’s education – Draco had volunteered to assist.

“A cravat or focale is tied in numerous ways ranging from simple to complicated knots, depending on the man’s rank and skill, or the skill of his valet or house-elf,” Draco explained. “You’ll need a lot of them, and it’s a popular traditional gift at Yule.”

“I got quite a lot of them this year,” volunteered Harry.

“White cravats are really the only suitable choice for formal occasions, though black cravats are acceptable for Aurors, Hit-Wizards, or wizards at more sombre events. Coloured cravats are suitable for daytime wear, but never for evening dances or formal dining. Unless you’re making some kind of deliberate statement.” Draco then proceeded to tell him how to leave instructions for the house-elves in a note regarding the preferred level of starch for one’s cravat. And that if he tied it too poorly to wear out, he must start afresh with a new cravat or press it magically – the old one would be too crumpled for immediate re-use.

“A stiffener made from a dragon wing bone may be used to help the knot hold its shape, as in the Oriental cravat knot. Knot style should be chosen to suit one’s physiognomy, and a cravat pin is needed for some knots. There’s over thirty styles of cravats, so do pick a few favourites to stick with that express your personal style and affiliations.”

“Does it really matter so much which knot I use to tie my cravat? Can’t I just pick _one_ I like and stick with it?” asked Harry a little rebelliously.

“Style matters! Some styles such as the Talma cravat are only worn for mourning, for example. You run a great risk of offending people if you wear such a knot to a wedding.

“Even Filch wears more than one style of cravat knot, though alternating between the Mail Coach and Day cravat styles with a grubby brown focale is _hardly_ the height of fashion. He usually uses only the very simplest knots – ones never suitable for formal occasions. Still, it is a reasonably elegant form of casual dress. Wasted on a bitter old Squib like him, but a valiant attempt.”

Harry would leap to the defence of Squibs in most circumstances, but he still wasn’t keen on Filch because of his death threats and demands for torturous punishment. Filch was an exception to his rule, not that Draco was likely to appreciate that fact.

“I won’t have a valet or house-elf to help me remember all the styles, so I think I’d better stick to a couple of simple knots too,” Harry said stubbornly.

“I suppose so,” Draco grudgingly conceded. “You can always learn more later. I actually know only about ten styles myself – my father or a house-elf helps me with the harder ones if I want to wear them.”

“What’s the minimum amount of cravats one should have?” Harry asked. “I’ve only bought one, but I was given a lot more as gifts. And is there a difference between a cravat and a focale?”

“Not a lot of difference, you can use either word pretty synonymously. Though you usually use ‘focale’ when talking about a slightly larger piece of cloth that’s almost like a scarf. At a bare minimum you need a dozen white, a dozen coloured, two black silk, three dozen shirt collars, and two dragonbone stiffeners. Kept in a special box, of course, since at Hogwarts the amount of wardrobe space available is _pitiful_.”

Neville bravely piped up from the next table. “I have five white, one black, and heaps of coloured ones.”

“Just one white, one black, and one green for me,” grunted Crabbe. “My dad likes me wearing robes, not shirts and vests and stuff.”

Goyle didn’t say anything, he was peering interestedly across the table at his homework which Hermione had taken off him and was busy writing corrections on. _Her own special version of how to befriend someone_ , thought Harry with affectionate amusement. That seemed to be going remarkably well.

“Well,” said Draco, taken aback by the chorus of disagreement, “ _my father_ says that’s the minimum you need. He _does_ wear shirts and vests regularly for casual wear a lot. With a cloak of course. _And_ he has more social commitments than a student has, so naturally he needs more than you two would. So that’s how many I have at home too.”

Draco taught Harry how to tie a couple of basic cravat knots, one of which had a spell with a complicated wand motion to do it instantly, which quickly made it Harry’s favourite knot. “Of course, it looks better around a shirt collar, not over the top of robes,” Draco said grumpily at the less-than-stellar result.

“You never know when it might come in handy, knowing how to dress to impress,” Daphne said with a little smile at Harry. “You might want to practice a bit for whomever is lucky enough to be your Valentine; I’ve heard Professor Lockhart might be planning a ball.”

“Really?” asked Pansy curiously.

“It’s not certain yet. But I’ve heard he’s planning _something_ very special. Of course, it’s not a _real_ holiday but we can have fun with it anyway, can’t we Harry?” she said, still smiling at him. He shrugged noncommittally, and didn’t admit he knew nothing about dancing at balls. He knew how Pansy would take that and he wanted _no part_ of dancing lessons.

At the end of the afternoon gathering Harry was feeling very happy with how well everyone had gotten along. Relatively speaking.

“I think that went well, don’t you?” babbled Hermione happily as she and Neville walked with Harry back to their dorms to put away their homework before dinner. Harry wished _he_ had a pile of completed homework, instead of notes about cravats. The things he did for the price of peace!

“Definitely!” said Harry happily. “You two did great.”

“Yes, it went well,” agreed Neville. “Crabbe was rather stand-offish, but Goyle was quite chatty once he got started, and I think Malfoy was the most polite I’ve ever seen him.”

“I really think we broke down some social barriers today, don’t you Harry?” Hermione beamed. “They just needed a chance. Even Pansy and Daphne might come around with time. And did you notice how I didn’t say anything when Draco talked about house-elves?”

“I did, thanks Hermione,” lied Harry, who realised now she mentioned it what an effort that must have been for her. “It was really great to have all my friends there together. Well, I suppose I could’ve done without Crabbe and Goyle.”

“Did you know that Goyle tried to pay me for helping him with his homework?” she said, sounding amazed. “He said he didn’t want to owe me a favour. He offered me five sickles, and when I said I was just happy to help, he raised it to six. He dropped the topic eventually, though.”

“Really? Why?” asked Harry.

“Oh, I guess he realised I was serious about not wanting the money. I _like_ to help.”

“No, that’s not it,” disagreed Neville. “It was because you said something like, ‘Oh, call me Hermione!’ while you were explaining things. He stopped because he thought the price of your assistance was calling you Hermione instead of Granger.”

“Good work there, then!” said Harry, impressed. “He still doesn’t call me Harry. Not sure why.”

“Maybe because you’re the Potter Heir?” suggested Neville.

But Hermione just looked dismayed. “I thought he was just warming up to me!”

“He was, by the sounds of it. Just in a more… traditional, Slytherin kind of way. You might want to brace yourself for more requests for homework assistance in the future.” Harry thought it likely that Goyle wasn’t so much accepting a friendship as giving her social acknowledgement in exchange for services rendered. Still, it was a grand start.

***

Valentine’s Day passed with a truly sickening amount of pink decorations everywhere, an overly giggly Hermione who still didn’t want to publicly admit to her crush on Lockhart, and some really dreadful singing dwarfs dressed as cherubs that he suffered through listening to _three times_ (the very worst poem compared his eyes to pickled toads). As sunset fell and Harry was fussing over Storm in his dorm room (his snake was refusing to eat and said he was full, and itchy), a large flock of owls arrived with Valentine’s Day cards for him. It didn’t beat Lockhart’s record of forty-six, but he guessed eleven was pretty impressive for a scrawny boy like him.

“ _Ignore the birdss, I am more important. Ssscratch me!_ ” demanded his snake. Harry scratched the little snakelet gently while opening cards with the other hand. There were a couple that he thought seemed to just want to politely acknowledge a friendship (like the ones from Millicent, Hannah Abbott and Lily Moon), a few sappy-sounding ones that he guessed were probably jokes (Daphne had sent one of those, and a few girls whose names he didn’t recognise), and then there was one who’d sent a whole scroll of parchment with an embossed wax seal – the contents of which made him accidentally scratch Storm harder than he’d intended.

“ _Ahhh!_ ” it hissed happily. “ _That’ss better_.” Harry felt something odd and worriedly glanced down to see some of its skin peeling away from its snout.

“ _Oh! You’re shedding your ssskin!_ ” He braced his hand politely so it could push along his hand, the shed skin turning inside out as it slithered out of it.

“ _You won’t believe what sssome girl or her family sssent me! It’ss an offer of betrothal!_ ” hissed Harry agitatedly to Storm. But after finding out that Harry had no intention to have a clutch of eggs with anyone any time soon, he quickly lost interest in the topic. Harry (who was even _more_ upset at Storm’s mention of children – he was _twelve_!) went to rant about it to Neville instead, who was much more interested in talking it over than his snake was.

“Who’s it from?”

“Gemma Farley’s family. Whoever she is. I don’t know her! Apparently they would like to negotiate a betrothal to take effect in five years’ time, and have sent through a draft contract for possible discussion. I think from what they’re saying here about waiting for her and _then_ me to graduate before the wedding that she’s an older student here.” Harry looked rather wild-eyed. “You mustn’t tell anyone!” he said, sounding panicked.

“I will keep your confidence, don’t worry,” soothed Neville.

“You mustn’t tell Pansy! Or Hermione! Or Daphne! The girls might be thrilled and think it’s romantic, but I know Hermione would be furious! Both would be terrible!”

“Harry, shhh! If you don’t quiet down the whole dorm is going to hear!”

“What if I see her in the halls? I don’t even know what she looks like! You have to help me get out of this! This letter is a danger even Dobby couldn’t protect me from!” He waved the letter in the air dramatically.

With a pop, the strange little house-elf in a grubby pillowcase appeared in front of him.

“Harry Potter is in danger?!” he squeaked worriedly, looking around wildly. With a snap of his fingers the letter in Harry’s hands burst into green flames and became a pile of ash in a split second. “Dobby must leave or he will be punished!” He popped away quickly.

After a frozen moment of shock, Harry shook the ash off his hands and with a quick _Evanesco_ tidied up the mess. “I guess he thinks he _can_ save me from that. Do you think he’s watching me all the time?” he asked Neville.

“That was weird, wasn’t it? And no, he’d have other duties. I guess he’s just adopted you as being like a special guest of the family he should listen for. He’ll be listening out for you to call his name with an order or something. Otherwise he won’t know at all what you’re saying or doing.”

Neville eventually got Harry to calm down by helping him draft an appropriately polite refusal as best he knew how – luckily he remembered the family and girl’s names. Then Harry wrote out a good copy, sealed with wax stamped with his Potter Heir ring.

So Harry spent his first romantic Valentine’s Day evening working on turning down a proposal of marriage without offending someone. Not _too_ much, anyway. Why was the universe always picking on him?

***

At Harry’s earlier request, Neville sat quietly at the same library table with Harry, Millicent and Tracey. It was part of Harry’s continuing quest to get his two groups of friends to socialise with each other more. He’d already lost Ron, and _really_ didn’t want to lose Neville and Hermione. Or any of the girls, for that matter. Neville should be the easiest to integrate (despite his distrust of Malfoy), and he thought perhaps Tracey and Millicent from the Slytherin side, so he’d invited specifically those three to join him for a chat and a study session. If it all went well, he’d try the group again later with Hermione added, and see how things went.

Neville was simply working away at his Transfiguration homework and mostly ignoring the conversation. It was a start, and not saying anything was an easy way to avoid offending anyone.

“What would Pansy like for her birthday, do you think?” Harry asked Tracey, as the twentieth of February crept closer and he realised he was running out of time to choose something.

“A betrothal contact with Draco?” she suggested. Millicent snorted with laughter.

Harry shuddered. “Something _reasonable_ ,” he nagged. “Does she have a pet? I could get her a pet too.”

“I’ve got a cat,” said Millicent, “and Pans, Daphne and Tracey all have owls. So pets are out.”

“Get something expensive. Something she can show off.”

Harry sat up brightly. He had some jewellery he’d bought for the girls last year that he’d forgotten about and never given to them, as it’d only been bought as pretend late Christmas gifts as part of his cover story for visiting Diagon Alley. He’d give Pansy some of the nicest pieces.

“Why didn’t you invite Daphne today? She’s still miffed at you, you know,” asked Tracey.

“For what?”

Tracey and Millicent stared at him, but didn’t explain why she was cross at him, and went back to their work wordlessly. Harry shrugged. Whatever it was, it mustn’t be that important if they wouldn’t explain it. He’d just make sure to invite her next time. Maybe she was feeling left out.

A few days later, Pansy cooed happily over his gift of an emerald pendant necklace (he’d had no idea it was a real emerald, so that was a bit of luck) and a gold bracelet. Whew! Disaster averted. She’d put so much effort into his Yule gift he didn’t want to let her down.

And Draco had a message for him to relay to Hermione, which he did so in the common room one evening.

“Draco says to let you know that he’s approved your offer of intermittent tutoring for Goyle, in exchange for his stance of friendly neutrality with you,” he repeated to her. “And-”

“Draco gets a say in who Goyle can associate with?” she said, shocked.

“Apparently. The Malfoys have a formally established patron-client relationship with the Goyle family – his father has a lot of say over what Goyle’s dad does as well, in exchange for social assistance and financial management advice.”

“That’s… different,” she said, trying to be diplomatic.

“Draco also says to warn you not to be offended if Goyle doesn’t look you in the eye when you’re talking, or if he stares too long. It doesn’t mean he’s not listening to you, it’s just his way, and he doesn’t mean to cause any offense. He also says to let you know that Goyle’s very literal, and not good with metaphors, so don’t use them when explaining things because it won’t help. You told Goyle you’d be happy to help him again some time, so Goyle’s holding you to that promise. Draco also reminds you that a gentleman can’t be alone with a lady without a chaperone, and Goyle will stick to that rule like he’s been charmed to it, so you’ll need to either study in the library or take another girl along to any private tutoring sessions.”

“Oh!” said Hermione, looking thoughtful. “That’s interesting. It sounds like perhaps he might be mildly autistic, or have Asperger’s.”

“I don’t know a lot about that,” Harry said interestedly.

“I know a little bit. My parents thought I might have Asperger’s, but the psychologist said I probably just respond to social isolation with over attention to academic matters as a coping strategy. Of course I couldn’t explain how when I used to argue with girls or get too worked up about losing at handball, odd things – magical things – would happen. It’s part of why I didn’t try with friendships much, sometimes. They thought I was weird.”

“But you’re really smart, nothing like Goyle,” Harry objected.

“You can be smart and still have Asperger’s syndrome or ASD. I might have borderline Asperger’s at most, the psychologist thought. Don’t you think it’s interesting that there’s a cultural mechanism in wizarding society that can be employed to support people who struggle with social interactions or who have lower intelligence? It worried me at first, but I think I can see now that in cases like this that it could be really useful. It’s not like it’s mandatory, after all.”

“You know, Neville said a patron-client relationship grows slowly over time, but it’s much easier to cancel than to establish. So the Goyles could quit any time if it actually bothered them,” reassured Harry.

***

Despite his heavy workload of both Muggle and magical studies, Harry hadn’t forgotten about the neglected petrified students still lying in the hospital wing. With a combination of research and networking (helped by his friends, including Percy) he found out why Creevey & Finch-Fletchley hadn’t been taken to St. Mungo’s. Hogwarts was authorised to act “in loco parentis” for Muggle-borns, and had the authority to make medical decisions on their behalf. It was because Muggle parents were unable to visit Hogwarts (too many wards against Muggles, who saw only a ruined castle surrounded by a lake and dull moorland), and traditionally had struggled to even stay in contact with their children. For while mail was now possible, the rules were set up decades ago when the mail transfer system to the Muggle world’s postal system wasn’t in operation. In addition to which, mail wasn’t considered fast enough in cases of medical emergencies, and Apparition straight in or out of Hogwarts was impossible (Hermione assured him of that, and then got distracted by his claim that Dobby seemed to be able to ignore that stricture). Hermione told him that her parents were never told by the Headmaster about her accident with the Polyjuice Potion. Nor of the troll attack in first year.

“I didn’t mind though – I didn’t want them to worry, or try and pull me out of Hogwarts. I’m sure if I’d asked the Headmaster would have notified them.”

Harry on the other hand thought that Dumbledore wanted to keep any bad press quiet. Perhaps because of a feared backlash from Muggle parents realising that Hogwarts isn’t as safe as promised – there was a risk to both enrolments and to the Statute of Secrecy. He talked over his concerns with his friends, and Hermione suggested starting a petition pushing for the petrified students’ parents to be contacted, and the students to be moved to St. Mungo’s. Neville suggested giving it to the Hogwarts Board of Directors as well as Dumbledore. When he broached the topic with the Slytherins (with Neville in tow), Pansy thought it was a great and novel idea… until she heard Hermione had come up with it. Then she pronounced it would never work, which made Millicent laugh at her (Neville snickered too, which earned him a glare), and the two girls had to leave to go bicker in private. Draco said he’d write to his father about it.

“They might only be Muggle-borns, but it _does_ rather set a bad precedent for students to have second-rate medical care. _I_ wouldn’t want to be stuck in the hospital wing and have no-one contact my parents about a serious injury; mother and father would be furious. And their families will be in your debt if you are seen to help their children when no-one else is willing.”

Draco’s family must use very fast owls, because he had a reply only a couple of days later. Pansy acted as go-between as usual, and asked very politely for it just to be the Slytherins meeting up with him on this occasion, and promised to leave out Crabbe and Goyle this time, if he would omit the Gryffindors.

“Alright. _This_ time,” he warned.

Pansy sighed. “This time. Next time you can bring them. If they continue to be polite.”

Draco kicked things off at their plotting session with a formal announcement. “Harry, my father has agreed to submit the petition to the Board of Governors of Hogwarts (of which he is a member I might add), and also to forward and promote your agenda, _provided_ it additionally recommends that Dumbledore be dismissed as Headmaster due to a lack of faith in his ability to provide safety and security for students at Hogwarts,” said Draco.

“Sure.”

“You see it’s necessary because… _what_ did you say?”

Millicent snickered.

“I said ‘sure’,” said Harry, with a smile. “No more Dumbledore, that’s fine by me.”

“He doesn’t _like_ Bumble-more, Draco,” explained Pansy, whispering confidentially.

“But aren’t you allies? Or at least friends of some sort? I heard you were on a first name basis with him,” said Draco, thrown by the complete lack of the expected argument.

“No. He uses _my_ first name, without permission I must say. And he certainly hasn’t offered the use of his own first name.”

“That’s… awkward. He _is_ rather eccentric,” said Draco.

“Why do you call him silly names, Pansy?” asked Harry, a bit distracted.

“Well… tradition.”

“It’s traditional to insult the Headmaster?”

There was a titter of laughter. “Maybe amongst the Slytherins,” said Millicent with a smirk.

“No, I mean it’s traditional to avoid saying the names of powerful wizards you are wary of,” Pansy said.

“Like You-Know-Who? The Dark Lord? Why?”

“Yes,” agreed Pansy, “like that. But I don’t know why. It’s just what you do. There’s probably a reason, magically.”

“Or the Boy Who Lived…” said Tracey quietly. Daphne nodded in agreement.

“Oh, really? But I was just a baby when that all happened and they started that name…”

“Still, a baby who defeated the Dark Lord. It made people nervous. If you listened to the whispers more you’d note that more and more people are calling you ‘the Boy Who Lived’ rather than ‘Potter’ in the halls now,” Daphne said.

“Those who aren’t just flat out calling me the Heir of Slytherin, you mean,” muttered Harry grumpily. “It’s all rubbish,” he insisted.

There was a chorus of soothing agreement, but he suspected none of them _really_ believed him unquestioningly.

“You’re all a bunch of liars,” he said with a wry grin, “but you’re great friends all the same.” They grinned back at him happily.

The girls left first, as Draco lingered a little longer. “I just wanted to thank you for your co-operation with my father’s plan,” he said, offering a sweeping bow.

“There’s really no need for that. Bowing.”

“I’m the Malfoy Heir. However, you are the Potter Heir, and that’s a Noble House, so you outrank me. In addition to which, there’s no reason to assume that you won’t become Head of the family when you reach seventeen. Which is why a bow is necessary, so long as it’s not going to attract unwelcome scrutiny from others. I know you don’t want people bowing to you in the halls and it might bring trouble in any case – I don’t do _that_.”

“I think that House Potter consists solely of myself,” said Harry a bit drearily. “So I’m not sure that being the Head of it is anything so impressive.”

“Nonetheless, that’s the order of precedence,” said Draco stiffly. “I’m _trying_ to be appropriately courteous here – you _could_ show a little appreciation.”

Harry supposed that was true. He gave Draco the Pansy-approved bow for those slightly inferior to you in rank, and as a spontaneous addition, reached out to shake his hand. “I do appreciate you’re making an effort. And don’t think it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’ve been very careful that you and your two friends avoided all… contentious topics when interacting with Hermione. So thank you.”

Draco gave a small smile and a nod of gracious acknowledgement. He was _appreciated_ by the new Heir of Slytherin. His father was going to be so proud!

“You know,” added Harry thoughtfully, “in addition to being a good friend of mine I might add she’s a very smart and powerful witch too, who’s planning on a career in the Ministry. So if you need to explain the need to be polite to her to Cr… ah… any of your friends who aren’t as bright and accommodating as you, that might be a good justification.”

Draco’s back straightened even further as he gave Harry a big smile. “Thank you, Harry. That’s good advice, and I appreciate it. It’s like something my father would say.”

***

It had taken them a couple of months, but Harry finally received a letter from Gringotts with copies of his parents’ will, and a list of disbursements already carried out by the bank or his parents’ executor. There was only _one_ joint will, which made him fume a little that they’d conned him into paying for copies of _two_ wills; they’d carefully not corrected his assumption he’d need to pay for two.

Most of the phrasing of the will, dated May 1981, was mostly quite dry and formal, which was disappointing to Harry who’d hoped for something more personal. There was a lot of “heretofore”, “thusly”, “forthwith”, and other old-fashioned legalistic language.

There were large bequests of money to Sirius Black (the traitor he’d read about in one of the more comprehensive history books), Peter Pettigrew (deceased), Remus Lupin (whom he’d never heard of), Marlene McKinnon (likewise), and Albus Dumbledore (“to aid the war effort”). Harry wondered what the old man had done with the money, given the war pretty much ended when his parents died. Gringotts noted that funds had long since been disbursed to all of them except McKinnon who predeceased them, and Pettigrew’s funds which had been deposited in his mother’s vault. The remainder of the Potter fortune was left to Harry, with the family vault to be administered by his Regent (and acting Head of House) until he reached the age of majority, and the trust vault to be used for his incidental living expenses. There were more details about the financial management of his vaults which were quite boring. Much of which didn’t even apply, such as what should happen if only one partner passed away, or if Harry was also deceased (it looked horribly like Black would’ve inherited almost everything). He guessed being in a war made you want to cover all your bases. It was rather depressing, especially given how much they’d clearly trusted Black.

The personal bequests were much more interesting to read about. A few people were left artistic items. Peter Pettigrew was left “the portrait of the coy shepherdess you’ve always admired”, and Albus Dumbledore was left a landscape painting with mermaids in a lake – both were noted by Gringotts as being presumed to be at Potter Cottage, as they weren’t able to be found in the vaults. However, Harry hadn’t seen them there. They must have been either already claimed, or hidden in the attic, or perhaps someone had stolen them as souvenirs. Alice and Frank Longbottom were left a tapestry of a woodland scene with unicorns, already disbursed from the Potter family vault.

Black was left his dad’s “match-winning Snitch” (which Harry guessed was the one he had retrieved from the Cottage, but had no intention of passing on to _that man_ unless he had to) and, “the goblet James charmed to always leak when you drink from it. Have a drink in our memory and try to laugh through the tears. We’ll laugh with you from the Summerland.” It was probably one of the many silver goblets he’d scooped up. Harry wasn’t interested in their bequest to their betrayer, but was _thrilled_ to see some written confirmation of his theory that his parents followed the Old Ways. There were a number of synonymous words used to describe the traditional wizarding belief in a summery pastoral afterlife realm (like Otherworld or Elysium), and Summerland was one of them.

Remus Lupin was left two books on magical creatures, one of which had already been sent to him from the main vault, but the other, “the signed copy of _Dreadful Denizens of the Deep_ ”, was presumed to be at the Cottage. Harry thought he might have seen it when he scooped up some books, and would check when he got a chance. He wondered what the man’s address was so he could send it to him.

Marlene McKinnon was left “the hopping pot Lily charmed that your daughter loves”. Gringotts noted that her entire family line was deceased prior to his parents’ death, so this bequest was inapplicable and the pot (if found) would revert to Harry. Harry guessed they must have died in the war.

The last bequest was to Severus Snape from Lily. “To Severus Snape, I leave the crystal lily he once gave to me, in memory of our long-departed friendship. I also send from beyond the veil my tardy forgiveness for the words he once said to me, and my regret that perhaps my actions may have set him more firmly on the path I suspect he has chosen.” It sounded like his mum might have blamed herself for her old friend becoming a Death Eater, Harry thought. Harry wondered if he really had become a spy against the Dark Lord, like Neville said Snape had claimed to be, after the war ended. If he had, it sounded like his mum had never heard about it. He wondered what she’d done that she regretted.

Harry (“Harold James Potter”) finally got a personal message from his parents near the end, leaving him “…all our remaining fortune and worldly possessions, and our regret we cannot be there to watch you grow up. We rejoice in the hope that you may survive our passing, our dearest child. We love you more than words can express.” He couldn’t help crying a bit at that.

Harry noted that both Potter Cottage (in Godric’s Hollow) and Potter Manor properties were explicitly listed as part of his inheritance, which might be useful for arguing with the Ministry in the future about ownership and administration of the Cottage.

Guardianship of Harry went to a surviving parent should only one pass away, and in the event of both his parents’ deaths his Regent was noted to be firstly Sirius Black, secondly the Regency and his guardianship should go jointly to Alice & Frank Longbottom, thirdly to Marlene McKinnon and her partner (both deceased in July 1981, the goblins noted), and lastly if all the above were deceased or unavailable he was to go to “a suitable family who will love and care for him, chosen in concert by Albus Dumbledore and Peter Pettigrew”. They listed each other, then Sirius Black as their will’s executor, followed by Dumbledore, then Peter Pettigrew, then Gringotts as a final back-up plan should the others predecease them.

Harry wrote a letter to Gringotts requesting that they send the book to Mr. Lupin and the crystal lily to Professor Snape, noting that both of these should be found in his trust vault. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The delightful insulting nickname “Bumble-more” was coined by ZanyMuggle in a review of my fic “A New Kind of Normal”, and is used here with their blessing.
> 
> Thank you everyone for a wonderfully large number of reviews on the last chapter!


	19. Decision Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry summons up his shreds of Gryffindor courage to face something truly terrifying – his fans. It’s for the Greater Good, after all (though Dumbledore wouldn’t agree). He also gets a letter of a worrying nature, and chooses subjects for third year.

**_March, 1993_ **

_We, the undersigned, request that the immediate families of the students petrified in the recent attacks at Hogwarts be urgently notified of their child’s condition. This will allow them to make an informed choice about whether to transfer them to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, seek other medical or magical assistance, or await the cure offered by Hogwarts staff in due course (which is still months away). No-one should lie neglected for months, missing out on school time that their families have paid tuition fees for, their parents or guardians all unknowing that their children are suffering so._

_We additionally request that Professor Albus Dumbledore be stood down from his position as Headmaster unless he can immediately demonstrate an improvement in ensuring the safety and security of students at Hogwarts. Many students are travelling about in groups in the corridors – afraid to wander alone lest they become the next victim. Just in the past couple of years we have had students attacked inside the castle itself by a troll, a cerberus, and now whomever or whatever is responsible for the petrifications; this school is not safe for students whilst under his direction. The culprit or creature needs to be identified and stopped, measures need to be introduced to ensure this, and reform is needed to ensure the students’ safety at all times._

“Will you sign it?” Harry asked, waving his sheet of parchment at someone in the Common Room. “It’s a petition calling for more action against the petrification attacks.”

“No… I like Dumbledore,” said an older Gryffindor boy with a shake of his head, after reading it.

Harry sighed. He’d had quite a few people sign, but the second paragraph was putting some people off. He bet Draco was having more luck with the Slytherins.

“I think it’s Filch’s fault,” said another boy. “He’s not doing a good job with the caretaking. If monsters are getting into the castle, or students are hexing each other to stone in the corridors, it’s because he’s not doing his job. We need a better caretaker.”

“Bit… odd… _you_ pushing for the attacks to stop,” a senior girl said with a suspicious glare at the ‘Heir of Slytherin’ also known as Harry Potter.

“You could sign then? So I’ll be caught?” he argued optimistically.

“If _you_ want it signed, I’m sure I shouldn’t. No offence.”

“Uh, none taken?” Well, it was obvious that the hat didn’t try and argue _her_ out of Slytherin or Ravenclaw once upon a time.

“I will sign,” said another Gryffindor. “I am sure Dumbledore will realise he needs to provide more substantial protection for students with this letter in front of him! His performance as Headmaster has been most dissatisfactory of late. How interesting to have a letter that you get lots of people to sign. I imagine it would cut down on owl traffic significantly.”

“How about you, Miss Weasley?” Harry asked Ginny politely, noticing her lurking nearby.

“Oh! Me?” she stammered shyly.

“Your brother Percy signed, will you sign too?” He didn’t mention Ron or the twins’ responses. At least the twins were polite about it, in a joking way. They’d said Dumbledore would make a good minion for Harry so they thought he should stay. Every villain needed a trusty old retainer.

She shuffled closer to read over the petition. “Do you… really think someone else could… help? More than Dumbledore?”

“Lockhart says he is sure he can catch it if given a free rein. And even if he can’t, well, others could certainly assist him. Perhaps a contingent of Aurors could be brought in – Dumbledore hasn’t even tried asking for external aid yet and he should be encouraged to do so. They’d sort things out in no time flat, surely.”

“Do you really think so?” Ginny had a kind of scared but hopeful look on her face. The attacks must really be getting to her. Harry knew Percy worried about her a lot lately; Ron might still be shunning Harry but the rest of his family didn’t seem inclined to.

“It’s certainly a better plan than sitting back and waiting for the next victim to show up. You don’t think it’s me, do you? Because it’s not.” He flashed her a calculated charming smile in imitation of Lockhart. “Don’t you want to feel _safe_ again? I’d really appreciate it if you and your friends would all sign the petition.”

“O..of course!” she said, blushing and signing. “You’ve given me hope, Harry.”

Not too much, he hoped. Depending on the kind of hope she had in mind. _Still_ , he thought as she scurried off shyly, _at least she’s now running off to get her friends to all sign. Another dozen signatures from scared little Firsties will help our cause a lot_.

Neville and Hermione had both signed, sure that Dumbledore would improve security once he realised how seriously people were taking his lack of action.

“Think of all the classes Justin and Colin are missing out on!” Hermione said. “It’s a tragedy. What if they have to _repeat_?!”

“And they’re missing out on the rest of their lives,” added Neville. “Just stuck in hospital, no-one doing anything,” he frowned, his face screwed up oddly. “Still, at least there will be a cure for them eventually. I think you’re right Harry – St. Mungo’s _should_ have supplies, or be able to order them in posthaste.”

“I think it’s because they’re Muggle-borns,” said Harry sadly. “So no-one cares enough.”

“Really?” said Hermione, sounding horrified.

“I don’t know for sure, it’s just a theory.”

“I think it is unlikely to be that,” said Neville, “because everyone knows Dumbledore is a big supporter of Muggles and Muggle-borns. But it wouldn’t be helping that their parents are presumably uninformed and unable to register their objections to the situation. That’s why I think your petition is a good idea.” Hermione looked more reassured by Neville’s thoughts on the matter.

“If it works, if wizarding society seems responsive to the idea, perhaps we should do one about house-elves, next,” she ventured optimistically.

They chatted about the H.E.L.P. Society’s agenda, but apart from recruiting more members (which had gone slowly, but moderately well), they were a bit stalled lately. Harry and Neville wanted to chat with some house-elves to get their perspective on things before pushing for changes, and Hermione was anxious to find a way to ensure any freed elves wouldn’t wither to death as the result of an ancient curse on their species. Neville had invited them both to visit Longbottom Manor over summer (“if Gran agrees”) to spend some time together and chat to their chief house-elf, Nebbit (they had three house-elves). He said he’d _definitely_ have to get his Gran’s permission before inviting the whole Society over; it wasn’t his place to host large social gatherings.

Harry mentioned that his stalker was listening out for his call, but seemed afraid of being punished for visiting. Hermione was deeply curious about meeting him, but didn’t want him to suffer for coming to Hogwarts. Harry had a plan he talked over with them – he was going to try and buy Dob… his stalker house-elf.

“I thought you didn’t even like him much? And wouldn’t it be kinder to set him free?”

“I _don’t_ like him. He’s unhinged. Bonkers. But it’s not right, how he’s treated. I’ll set him free if it’s safe to do so,” explained Harry. “And if it’s not, at least I can ensure he’s kept in better conditions than he currently is. Or given to a family he’d be happier with. Maybe with a new home he won’t be so inclined to self-punishment, too.”

Hermione surprised him with a hug that left his hands flailing about uselessly in the air. Why did she keep doing that?!

***

Harry sat on his bed one evening reading his mail after his wards let owls arrive with mail after sunset; there was a lot of it that day. There was a bank statement from Gringotts with a pleasant lack of surprise expenditures, a letter from an old witch who wanted to know if he’d like a Kneazle kitten (no thank you), another ad from Gladrag’s Wizardwear, three anonymous letters from students telling him off for being the Heir of Slytherin and working to depose the Headmaster (Harry suspected there might be more if his owl ward didn’t stop Howlers), three letters from people (including some adults) thanking him for his efforts to purify the school and his attempts to get rid of the Muggle-loving Headmaster, and a fourth letter with what looked like an unskilled drawing (probably by a very young child) of himself with an enormous lightning bolt on his head and a big colourfully striped snake at his feet. An apologetic and formal explanatory note was enclosed with the artwork by the child’s mother who said her three year old daughter Flavia was a “great admirer” of his, and had an older brother in Slytherin in 5th year, Peregrine Derrick, who’d written all about him in his letters to home. He had never met the boy that he knew of, but quickly scrawled a polite reply to Miss Derrick thanking her for the lovely drawing. He sent his stock responses to the other letters of condemnation or insulting praise with a sigh. The most interesting letter was one that had just arrived from Quirrell.

_Dear Gryffindor Knight,_

_I hope this missive finds you in good health. My own I regret to say is quite poorly, but more of that anon._

_How interesting to hear that Snape is continuing to covertly support the Old Ways amongst the students of Hogwarts. I had thought he had ceased such activities with the end of the war many years ago. Perhaps he has not abandoned all his old beliefs after all. And yes, it is true that he once knew your mother. I believe he cared for her a great deal, in fact. He might be persuaded into granting you some large favour out of guilt for failing to save your mother from her sad and unnecessary doom. That is something you should exploit to your benefit if you need to._

Quirrell was _such_ a Slytherin. Of course, so was he, at heart. Harry mentally filed away the advice for emergencies.

_You are correct in your assumption that Squibs are barred from attending Hogwarts, except of course in the role of menial labour and so forth. With a larger population of house-elves for a smaller population of students, there is not such a demand for servants at Hogwarts as once there was. Squibs are generally disadvantaged in society, being disinherited as a matter of course since they are peregrini class citizens (much like goblins or Muggles), though many will look the other way to permit a wizard or witch to marry a Squib, as any magically talented children would still be able to inherit. It is an unpopular choice, however, as it is thought to ruin the family magic and lead to more Squib births – a great risk for those in the main family line. Perhaps this is not the case, but it is nonetheless a widely held belief. I am intrigued by your proposals for further study of such matters. I myself have long held the belief that the old tradition of Changelings is the best way for our society._

It amazed Harry sometimes that a culture so unthinkingly unprejudiced in matters of race (like not worrying one jot about the Patils being of Indian heritage) could make up so many new classes of people to be horrible to. He hadn’t known before that Squibs weren’t regarded as full citizens.

_I understand your concerns about Memory Charms on Muggles and those Muggle-borns who don’t wish to be part of our society, however, to do otherwise would be to doom our society to discovery and destruction. As you yourself observed the skills of Muggles grow with every year. They have threatened and killed our kind for centuries; do not be deceived by the white-washed words in your history book. Many witches, wizards, and even innocent Muggles were burned to death, drowned, beaten, tortured for confessions or their knowledge, and simply driven from their homes by the scowls and suspicions of their neighbours. Fear rules Muggle-kind. Once it was our kind’s greatest weapon – to make examples of some with a great show of magic and terrify the remainder into respect. Those weaker of will chose to hide their homes and families away in glamoured illusions of hills, or on mist shrouded islands, some of which they say remain lost to this day due to too many wards confounding those who seek those hidden isles._

_Yet does not ignorance serve our kind better? For they cannot fear or rise up against those they do not remember, and thus the Statute of Secrecy was brought in, and the Memory Charm was developed. We need not cow or coax those into submission who might threaten us – we can simply ignore them. Perhaps you yourself living among Muggles for so long have seen the suspicion and dislike that is likely to be evoked whenever the gift of magic escapes one’s control._

It seemed harsh, but made a lot of sense how he put it. Quirrell certainly had a way with words. He never thought he’d be convinced that Memory Charms were a good thing. But they did beat the alternatives.

_That it is a weak defence against the developing Muggle technology is interesting, and should my health ever allow it I shall be sure to investigate this matter for myself. Our nation needs to be more unified and reformed to be stronger against possible attacks should we be discovered. Perhaps you have not had reason to interact with our government yet, but should you do so you will assuredly find it is inefficient and corrupt, and would be markedly slow to respond to any threat posed by Muggles; their danger is widely underestimated, as is the threat of exposure posed by Muggle-borns and their families. I do not resent Muggle-borns in of themselves, you must understand. They have power, and that should be cherished. It is the risk they pose to society as a whole due to their background that is a matter of concern._

_I would encourage you not to leave us for the Muggle world. Our world is your birthright; seize it. Has the Muggle world been so good to you? Treasured your talents? Does your family treat you well and appreciate you as the wonder that you are? There is sometimes an almost instinctual dislike of wizarding kind and Muggles for each other; our kind was not meant to mix with theirs. They feel threatened, and jealous, and know not why. It is because we are better. We are superior. Some animal instinct alerts them to this, and makes them fear us._

Harry wondered if this was true. Could it be why the Dursleys had always struggled to care for him? An instinctual dislike of wizards? Hermione’s family seemed to treat her well. But then, the Dursleys always acted nicer out in public than they did behind closed doors. She didn’t seem to miss them so much that it was a hardship to stay at Hogwarts over Christmas. Perhaps that was a sign. But then, he was pretty sure that Neville had a _much_ harder home life than she did, and his family were all pure-bloods.

_You can combine your ambitions of being a Healer with a career in politics. In the long life granted to wizard-kind there is room for both. Do note that Healers foreswear claiming life debts for those they heal. If you are thinking that it may be a good source of loyalty to serve you later in politics let go of that notion now. Only the most unprincipled claim life debts due to actions carried out in the course of their duties; your reputation would be irretrievably marred by any attempt to claim debts._

He hadn’t been thinking any such thing, but it was good to know.

_I am uninterested in Muggle healing for myself as my ailment is purely magical in nature. I am, however, most appreciative of your thoughts on my welfare._

_And thus the topic turns to my ill health. I regret to say that my physical decline has progressed markedly, and I fear that even should I not die, I will be of such poor physical state in the future that our correspondence may shortly come to an end._

“Oh no!” Harry said, turning away from his letter to wipe at his eyes. He was glad his bedcurtains were drawn so no-one in his dorm would see him crying. He sniffled and cried quietly.

“ _What distressess you, Commander_?” hissed Storm.

“ _Harold. My friend and mentor, Quirrell, is very sssick. He writes to tell me that even should he sssurvive his current bout of illness, he will be so ill he may not be able to write to me any more_.”

“ _That is sssad for you. Can you not make him better with magic, Clever-man?_ ”

Harry hesitated. “ _I’m just a young Clever-man. I don’t know ssspells ssstrong enough_.”

“ _Then learn them. From the Elderss_.” Storm seemed pleased with his own advice, and got distracted burrowing into the soil and leaves in his tank.

Harry realised he didn’t know enough about Quirrell’s curse to know where to start looking for answers. It didn’t mean he couldn’t try, though. If only he’d thought to ask earlier! He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought to ask. It had just seemed rude. And presumptuous – to think he could help when Quirrell must have tried everything already. But maybe he could help. Maybe Quirrell had missed something in the Hogwarts library.

_I regret to say that my current accommodation is falling apart around me. My house has served me well, but is now in very poor condition and held together more by magic and my force of will than its own physical integrity. It was perhaps not the best fit for me. I shall need to move soon, and that may result in a lack of correspondence also. So do not be alarmed should my letters cease – I may resume them in due course should my health rally._

_I hope it will never come to this. I strive against the encroaching darkness every day, but it is still possible that the worst may yet come to pass, and I leave this mortal world for the Elysian Fields despite my most Herculean efforts to stave off the malaise of mortality that dooms so many wizards. Know that in that sad event a bequest shall await you with the goblins of Gringotts. Should I be magically noted to be dead, rather than merely incapacitated, you should be alerted to a will reading. Be sure to attend as the goblins may claim your share of an inheritance if you fail to appear. There will be a small amount of money set aside for you, and an old family ring from my mother’s side of the family that I hope you will wear in memory of me. It is of unprepossessing appearance, but is a family legacy of great antiquity, and I have a great personal attachment to it. In wearing it, you will keep my memory alive in this world and that thought is of great comfort to me in my current decline. I beg you would honour my wish in this respect._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Slytherin Forever_

He would honour it. If it ever came to that, he would remember Quirrell, and never forget him. Harry sniffled unhappily.

He wrote an urgent letter politely begging Quirrell to let him know what was wrong with him so he could research it and maybe help, and recommended again that he try seeing a Muggle doctor, because what could it hurt? He wasn’t in any mood to gossip about goings on at school or social philosophy in the face of Quirrell’s news, so it was a short letter in the end. He did promise that he would wear Quirrell’s ring if it came to that, hopefully many years from now.

***

The Easter holidays rolled around in due course, and Harry received a small collection of chocolate eggs and rabbits, and animated frogs. All of which he gave away in the Gryffindor common room to appreciative students. A couple of people found him to apologise for not knowing he didn’t eat chocolate.

“I’ve never heard of anyone being sick from a food like that – are you sure you just don’t like it very much?” one asked.

Harry tried to explain about food allergies and intolerances, but it seemed to be written off as “a weird Muggle thing”.

“Alright, look, you don’t need to understand it. Just know that I don’t eat chocolate, all right?” he said in the end, exasperated by the conversation.

“Fine, fine, you don’t like chocolate. Sorry!”

But Easter on the whole wasn’t given a lot of attention over the holidays. The topic on the lips of all the second years was what they were all going to choose as their third year electives, as they were required to pick them at the end of the break. Hermione made lists of pros and cons, convinced that whatever she picked (or omitted) was going to change the course of her whole life, and thus the deepest thought was required. Neville struggled with an influx of letters from relatives all giving conflicting advice.

“That’s a tough one,” Harry sympathised. “If only they agreed with each other you’d know what subjects to pick to make them happy.”

“He should choose for himself, Harry!” Hermione said earnestly. “Subject choice will guide his whole future – it’s something very individual.”

“But he really only needs Herbology… the rest he could select based on his family’s opinion.”

“That’s ridiculous. Is this a pure-blood custom?” she asked warily.

“No, it’s just what you do to avoid trouble, surely? Luckily for me my aunt and uncle don’t care what I choose. Well, actually I don’t think they even know I’m choosing my electives. I told Dudley though; he thinks Care of Magical Creatures sounds coolest. He doesn’t have to pick his GCSE subjects until near the end of next year.”

“They’re not making me pick,” reassured Neville, “it’s just that everyone has an opinion and I don’t want to upset anyone. Gran is my regent, but I’ll be the Head of the family when I’m older, just like Harry. So even in an _exceptionally_ traditional family it would still be up to us. Do you think Arithmancy or Ancient Runes would be more difficult?” worried Neville.

“You should look over the textbooks and see which of the two looks easier to you, or most interesting,” advised Harry. “Percy told me to think about what kind of career I want, and pick subjects suited to that. And to play to my strengths. Professor McGonagall’s invited me to a meeting to discuss my subject selection and talk about career plans – are you having one too?”

“No, I regret to say she didn’t invite me to an interview. Perhaps I should enquire as to the possibility of a meeting for myself?” he worried.

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

When Harry sat down for tea with Professor McGonagall in early April to chat about his career plans, it turned out that they wouldn’t actually be of much help for deciding on his subject selection.

“To enter an apprenticeship to become a Healer, you usually have to have excellent academic credentials, with a minimum of five NEWTs with a grade of either 'Outstanding' or 'Exceeds Expectations' in Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and Defence Against the Dark Arts. More NEWTs are of course looked upon favourably. I would advise you concentrate on improving your Potions grade and not take too many electives, as Professor Snape usually only accepts students at NEWT level who have achieved an OWL with an Outstanding grade. It is rare for him to make an exception to that, and I would by no means encourage you to rely on that possibility. Concentrating on your core subjects is the key thing to focus on for you, Mr. Potter.”

“Are any of the elective subjects particularly advantageous for an aspiring Healer?”

McGonagall paused thoughtfully while taking a sip of her tea. “I’m not certain, you may wish to talk the matter over with Madam Pomfrey if she has a spare moment. I would guess that Care of Magical Creatures might be advantageous, as some unusual injuries may result from creature attacks.”

“I’m curious about Muggle Studies; can Muggle-born and raised students really take it? Hermione was interested in it.”

“Oh yes, it’s a useful subject if you’re considering a future in any area of Muggle-magical relations, or business. No-one is barred from any subject by their blood status.”

 _Just citizenship status_ , thought Harry. There weren’t any Squib or goblin students at their school, after all.

“I’m not sure I want to take it as a subject, but I wondered if I could sit the test for the subject without doing the class?”

The textbook was a joke, so he thought he could probably do the final exam in his sleep. The real challenge would be learning if wizards got things wrong about recent developments. What if he answered “yes” to a question like “Can Muggles’ planes fly into space?” and talked about space shuttles to the mystification of a pure-blood examiner? It could happen.

“It’s not common for a student to do so, but you may if you wish. A poor result would mar your record, however, so I would not advise doing so unless you’re feeling very confident with the material. You’re welcome to consult again regarding the matter near the end of fifth year, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Professor.” He was sure he could get at least an A sitting it now, so that would be an easy OWL to add to his school record.

“I understand you’ve been spending a lot of time with some Slytherin students, Mr. Potter,” she said, with overdone casualness that put him on guard.

“Here and there,” he said innocently. “I like having lots of friends here at Hogwarts.”

“Friends are a good thing,” she agreed, “but do be careful about what kinds of… activities they lead you into doing. You have to think about the family background of some of those people you’re associating with. Some follow traditions of a Dark nature, and I am concerned for you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry fumed on the inside. Ron. Ron had gone and complained to Professor McGonagall about him and what he was up to, just like he’d threatened he would.

“I hope you’re not falling prey to the sadly common fear that I’m the Heir of Slytherin, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh no! No, Mr. Potter. For Dumbledore has assured the staff that only the most powerful Dark magic could petrify people beyond his ability to reverse.”

 _But he hasn’t assured the students_ , thought Harry. _He lets them insult me or bow to me, without bothering to make an announcement about the attacks to the student body as a whole_. _He has suspicions of who’s behind the attacks, yet doesn’t tell anyone who, and lets me take the blame. Or the credit._

“I am worried to hear that you may have been drawn into some old, pagan celebrations of a Dark nature,” McGonagall said, with an air of genuine concern.

Harry decided to go with his emergency plan he’d thought up long ago for if he was ever caught out. “I went to one,” he said, sounding ashamed and shy. “In first year. But you know, it wasn’t anything so bad. Just dancing and singing. But it still felt kind of… wrong. So I didn’t go to any more. I don’t know if there even have _been_ any more. It didn’t sound like they were a regular thing. I was just curious, you know? They said I didn’t have to go if I was _scared_ , and I didn’t want them to think I was.”

Professor McGonagall took the bait – hook, line and sinker. She reassured him about his wise choice not to go to any more, the importance of being _brave_ to stand up to peer pressure, and how he could confide in her any time if there was something he needed to talk to a trusted adult about.

Harry thought he rather did like having a trusted adult he could talk to. Well, write to. It was such a horrible pity the man was so deathly ill. Life was so unfair.

He did go and talk to Madam Pomfrey about what electives she thought would suit an aspiring Healer, and she agreed with Professor McGonagall’s opinion that Care of Magical Creatures was a good choice.

“The only subjects I’d advise against are Divination, and Muggle Studies,” she said. “I’m not sure how much reading you’ve been doing since we last talked, but you might like to note that the old traditions of diagnosing illnesses through haruspicy or other methods of divination has been out of favour for over two centuries.”

“Haruspicy?”

“The art of examining entrails and liver of an animal to look for signs of illness in a patient. A practitioner is called a Haruspex. Only the very oldest Healers are likely to have trained in such methods to a degree meriting the title.

“By the way, in addition to those subjects that are required, do be sure to keep up your grade in Astronomy. It’s not one of the required subjects to enter an Apprenticeship any more, but it is still very useful to consult a patient’s star chart to assist with diagnosis and recommended treatments, if a condition does not require immediate action.”

“I thought you just said medicine didn’t draw on divination anymore?”

“Oh no! It doesn’t. But one must account for celestial influences. Different constellations and planets rule over different parts of the body.”

Harry was careful not to roll his eyes. “Thank you for your advice, Madam Pomfrey.”

In the end, Harry decided to keep his course load light and add only the minimum two subjects. He did have his _real_ Muggle Studies subjects to keep up to date with, after all. He picked Care of Magical Creatures first. Because it sounded useful for his career plans, interesting, and likely to be light on written homework. The second choice took a bit of pondering, but in the end he went with Ancient Runes. Mostly because both Quirrell and Professor Snape had told him that his mother was really good at it. The main book for first year Ancient Runes ( _Ancient Runes Made Easy_ ) seemed dense and harder than its title suggested, requiring a lot of memorisation of various sets of runes and poetry (for some reason). But the ongoing benefit of possibly being able to craft his own permanently enchanted objects once he was skilled enough seemed quite intriguing. He’d looked over his charmed rocks in Storm’s tank, and his new school trunk, and found tiny runes etched on them both. The ones on the trunk were worked into the embellished carvings around the edge of the lid, and a few on the bottom where you wouldn’t see them unless you went looking for them. He couldn’t find any at all on his magic wand, which was curious.

Hermione was still a bundle of nerves unable to decide, and eventually said she’d follow his and Neville’s lead and talk to Professor McGonagall about it. Neville told Harry he’d picked Care of Magical Creatures (mostly to have Harry’s company, but also because it might be useful for gardening), and Divination (his great-uncle had recommended it). “And Ron says it’ll be a piece of cake,” he said. Harry frowned. “You don’t mind, do you? That I am still talking to him?”

“No,” he said with a sigh. “It’d be kind of hypocritical of me. I know that sometimes friends don’t get along with some of your other friends. Just… don’t gossip about me to him, alright? He’s been telling tales to McGonagall about me going to the quarter festivals. So, if he asks, tell him I stopped.”

“Sure, Harry.”

“I thought about doing Divination too,” shared Harry. “But I don’t have the gift. So it didn’t seem like there would be a lot of point. I hope you have better luck.” Neville looked worried again, and Harry wished he’d kept his big mouth shut instead of saying that.

***

Harry was trying to read up on skull-rotting illnesses that didn’t respond to normal healing spells and would be helped by unicorn blood, but had absolutely no success in the general library stacks. He asked Lockhart for some more passes to the Restricted Section, and his professor was happy to oblige. That man was really growing on him, even though his classes were a write-off.

“I always have time for my protégé, Harry! I can afford to take a little time out from working on my next memoir to be of assistance to students in need,” he beamed. “And perhaps, you might consider having a little chat with me sometime about your adventures in Hogwarts last year? It would make a delightful anecdote to include in my new book.”

“The Headmaster would be a better person to talk to about some of that, but I could tell you about my own trouble with a troll, if you like? It was quite dramatic.” Lockhart seemed to find that adequate recompense for his seconds of effort signing a handful of passes to borrow unnamed books from the Restricted Section.

There was a lot more information about the limitations of magical healing in the more advanced books. Interestingly, while bones broken by normal means such as falls or blunt trauma could be easily mended with magic, the same types of breaks were very resistant to healing when inflicted by spellfire or magical animals. There were some rather graphic accompanying animated images of two similar broken legs with bone protruding through the surface of the skin, one of which healed instantly under a shower of sparks (presumably from a wand out of shot) and the other which only caused the skin and flesh to grow up over the still-damaged bone. Harry wondered how they’d gotten someone to volunteer to be photographed for that procedure.

Wizards and witches also seemed to be more resistant to poisons than Muggles, which was attributed to their possession of magic. The tome he was reading then suggested reading further on that topic in _The Anatomie of Magick_ if the reader was interested in speculation on the underlying differences of wizard-kind with Muggles.

However, when Harry borrowed that very old tome bound in cracked leather (with a frown from Madam Pince who peered suspiciously at his pass) he found it wasn’t what he was expecting.

He thought he’d find a philosophical and theoretical treatise on the origins of magic and the differences between normal and magic-using people. Instead, he got something that turned his stomach. It was a centuries-old hideously detailed book with handwritten text musing and speculating on where in the body the reservoir of magical power lay, or the channels through which it passed. It might have been interesting if not for the enchanted illustrations. There were copious animated realistic paintings of comparative vivisections of magical people and animals, and of Muggles and mundane animals. Harry slammed the book shut at the image of a man’s still-beating heart being removed from his chest.

He was a lot more wary of exploring the Restricted Section after that. He returned the book the next morning with a weak apology to an understanding Madam Pince, and borrowed a book on Ancient Runes to read up on instead. Quirrell hadn’t written back yet, and Harry was starting to think he never would again.

Percy noticed him looking dispiritedly paging through the pages of the thick tome about runes in the Gryffindor Common Room the next evening, and decided to brave both Harry’s sighs and the tiny snake curled up in his lap (who was enjoying the warmth coming from both Harry and the fireplace nearby).

“Good evening, Harry. I wondered… is everything well with you? No-one bothering you in the corridors over that Heir business, I hope?”

Harry looked up with a forced smile. “Oh, greetings Percy. I’m… fine. I just got some bad news a while ago that an old friend of mine is ill. I’m trying to take my mind off things with some Ancient Runes study. To see what it’ll be like next year. And… it looks really hard. Like learning four new languages hard. And I’m already trying to learn French. So… I’m wondering if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.”

“Well, I must say I’ve had to devote a lot of _time_ to studying, I’m doing a _lot_ of the electives myself,” said Percy. “As I told Hermione, it’s something to talk to Professor McGonagall about, if you’re worried about juggling too many subjects.”

“I’m only going to do two electives, I picked Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes, in the end. Thanks for your advice on that, by the way. I don’t want to overload myself, and I don’t need more electives to be a Healer. It’s just… having to learn so many languages. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep them all straight.” Harry patted his snake and it coiled up around his wrist, hissing quietly at him. Percy watched with curiosity as Harry hissed back at it.

“It seems to me you _already_ speak three languages. English, French, and Parseltongue. Of course, magically acquired languages are going to be easier, aren’t they? You’re an expert in that last one already.”

“Pity I can’t just magically speak French by looking at a French person.”

“Well, I have to learn subjects the old-fashioned way,” said Percy quietly. “With study and lots of memorising. But there are short-cuts, if you have enough galleons or the right connections. Did you know that Mr. Crouch, the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, can speak over two hundred languages, including Mermish, Gobbledegook and Troll?” he said enthusiastically.

“Wow! Did he tell you how he learnt so many?”

“I don’t know how, and father never said. I believe there’s a magical process you can undergo, however. I haven’t met him personally, but we’ve exchanged a letter or two. I’m hoping to join his Department when I graduate.”

“Thank you Percy,” said Harry with a deep nod of gratitude. “I’m in debt for your most estimable advice.”

Percy looked very pleased. Harry was pleased too. If there was some potion or spell that sped up language learning, getting a GCSE in French would be a breeze. And maybe Runes could be helped along too, if he could learn the runic alphabet sets and Egyptian hieroglyphics magically. He got Mr. Crouch’s address details from Percy (just his work address, of course) and Percy’s best tips for how to properly address the letter.

***

On a lovely sunny Saturday in April most of the students were out watching Quidditch, while Harry, Hermione and Neville were walking down a marble staircase towards Harry’s favourite gloomy classroom for practicing Potions. There were a few things Neville wanted to brush up on, and Hermione decided she might tag along today as well.

“ _Must obey… attack ssstudentss… ssso hungry_ ,” whispered an echoing voice as they were walking down a marble staircase. Harry stopped in place and Neville bumped into him.

“Harry? You alright?”

“Shh! Can you hear it? It’s the voice again. You know, it sounds a lot like Storm. ‘ _Ssso hungry._ ’ That’s what he sounds like.”

“Shhss-ahss-sshah?” Neville copied Harry’s hiss very roughly. “What’s that in English, Harry?”

“Do I really sound like that?” Harry said, surprised. Neville nodded. “Well, it means, ‘so hungry’. I think there’s a snake sneaking about the castle. Do you think Slytherin’s monster is a snake? It would make sense, given he was supposed to be a Parselmouth.”

“I think you’re right, Harry!” said Hermione excitedly. “And I’ve got an idea about the petrifications – I’m going to the library to research it!”

“Do you want us to come with you?” offered Harry. “We can reschedule our Potions practice if you like.”

“No, I don’t want to interrupt your study, Neville. I won’t be long – I’ll see you at lunch!”

“Be careful!” he called. “Watch out for snakes! Hex first and ask questions later!”

But she wasn’t careful enough. As students streamed back into the castle for a lunch from the cancelled Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match, Professor McGonagall came and found them at the Gryffindor table with bad news – Hermione had been found petrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research trivia! Peregrine Derrick appears as a Slytherin Quidditch Beater in HP & the PoA (later replaced on the team by one of Crabbe/Goyle in the 1995-96 school year as he’d just graduated), but his first name of Peregrine is apparently only mentioned in the Harry Potter: Quidditch World Cup video game.
> 
> To D: The person responsible for Snape becoming a Death Eater is *Snape*. That doesn’t mean that Lily might not have erroneously blamed herself or felt guilty about it when she suspected he’d become one. She and James argued a bit about that part of the will, but she got her way in the end.
> 
> Remember folks, self-judgement is not the same thing as culpability. To give another example - when Harry blames himself for the way the Dursleys treat him that does not mean that a child is actually responsible for adults mistreating or neglecting him.
> 
> To Em: Harry is never likely to “snap out of” anything in this fic series. In fact, in this particular series you can usually rely on character personality changes being slow and gradual. That being said, I think you might like some scenes coming up in the last couple of chapters of this fic, so I hope you’ll hang around to see how things develop. For the record in regards to Pansy, Harry knows Pansy is using him sometimes (she can be a bit obvious). He just figures that’s what people do (especially traditionalist Slytherins), and Pansy actually likes him, and she’s family. So he cuts her a lot of slack on that account.


	20. Enough Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Hermione lying petrified in the Hospital Wing, Harry is sick and tired of waiting for the adults to deal with the problem of the petrifications. Enough waiting - it's time to act! Of course, it doesn't mean he has to be a *total* Gryffindor about it.

**_April 1993_ **

Neville and Harry stood solemnly in the Hospital Wing, looked down at Hermione’s petrified body on the narrow hospital bed.

“I wish she’d said what her theory about the creature was _before_ she was petrified,” said Harry, staring down at the still body of his friend with clenched fists. It shouldn’t have happened. A normal school would have shut down long ago with so many students hospitalized. They took injuries and curses far too lightly here.

“I guess we get more signatures,” said Neville, “or wait for the cure. She can tell us when she wakes. Hermione’s going to be so mad she missed out on so many classes. Madam Pomfrey says she’ll have to wait until the start of June for the cure.”

“I’m not _waiting_. We’ve waited long enough.”

Harry found Draco in the corridor outside the Great Hall before dinner that evening, and handed in his petition sheet, asking him to collect the ones from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff too and forward copies of them all to his father, if he’d be so kind (Morag MacDougal and Ernie Macmillan were helping them out in those Houses), and provide Harry with a copy of them to give to the Headmaster. (He was hoping to pass it on via Professor McGonagall, actually, rather than confront him directly. That felt like asking for trouble.) He’d gotten a handful of extra last minute signatures as some people apologised for thinking he was the Heir – clearly he wasn’t if Hermione had been attacked, as everyone knew they were friends.

“Hermione’s in the hospital wing. It’s too much. We need action,” said Harry passionately.

“You won’t ah… there won’t be any inconvenience to you if the attacks are investigated?” Draco asked cautiously.

“No!” said Harry crossly. “I keep telling you I’m not the Heir. There’s nothing to find – it’s not me. That Hermione was attacked should be enough proof for anyone.”

Draco’s eyes widened as he realised what was going on – Harry had put one of his best friends in the hospital wing to deflect suspicion from himself. That was cunning, and his choice of sacrificing his Muggle-born friend was interesting. He wondered if Hermione had volunteered or not. He looked at the press of people around them also headed for the Great Hall, and nodded politely at Harry. Now wasn’t the time to discuss it. Whatever was going on, Harry clearly thought his tracks were well covered enough to stand up to some scrutiny.

Harry kind of wanted to explain more, but this didn’t seem like a great time to be admitting to hearing serpentine voices. Draco probably wouldn’t believe him anyway – he seemed pretty convinced Harry was the Heir, despite his repeated denials. Maybe he should’ve put more effort into talking the Slytherins around – he just hated arguing about it and had been hoping it’d all blow over.

“We’ll talk later, alright?”

Convinced of the creature’s rough identity and culpability, Harry and Neville split up after dinner to try and enlist a teacher to help deal with the monster more actively. Neville picked Professor McGonagall, while Harry decided to try talking to Lockhart. Even if he wasn’t half as good at magic as he liked to say he was, the man _was_ a charismatic and effective organiser and might be able to rally efforts to find and corral (or kill) the creature.

Lockhart was looking distracted and busy tidying up his desk when Harry barged into his office after a perfunctory knock on the door. But he seemed in a good humour when he saw it was Harry interrupting his day.

Harry explained about Hermione and accepted Lockhart’s condolences on her incapacitation (she _was_ one of his favourite students). Then he launched straight into his theory about the identity of the monster petrifying students (and Filch’s cat).

“I think it’s some kind of snake, sir. I think I’ve heard it moving about, sometimes. And hissing.”

“Have you _seen_ a snake moving about? Apart from your own of course?”

“No, but-”

“Now Harry,” said Lockhart, patting him genially on the shoulder. “With my hand at the helm your teachers and I have the matter well in hand, and the Ministry’s looking into it too. I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially even though no-one else was in his office apart from himself and Harry, “but the Ministry is close to making an arrest. I’ve got my eye on the culprit too – he’s not going to try anything with _me_ watching him.”

“You could rally some Aurors to help. You wouldn’t have to do anything personally except lead the effort. It’s the other students I’m worried about too - if the snake monster is travelling about-”

“-Harry, I want you to forget about this and try to relax. You know I’m not one to spread gossip, but you perhaps should know that the more experienced teachers here know it isn’t a snake. The monster plaguing Hogwarts is in fact a rare type of Acromantula - a species of giant spider. Do keep that tidbit of information under your hat, though! We don’t want the students distressed – we have it all under control, I assure you. Why, I’m an honorary member of the Dark Forces Defence League! It would all be sorted out faster if I was given free rein, but never mind, we will see an arrest momentarily of the fellow responsible for setting it loose in the castle, and this will all be but a distant memory soon. Well, unless you buy my next book, then you can relive all the excitement over again!” He let out a jolly laugh. “I’ve been making notes already,” he said with a gesture at his desk, “it’s going to be a bestseller! I’ve got so many good ideas!”

Harry smiled tightly and wished him luck with his book. He did like the man, but this was “rather trying” as Neville might say. He’d need better evidence if he wanted to persuade the man into mustering help to deal with the snake. He hoped Neville had done better.

Unfortunately, Neville reported that while McGonagall had thanked him for the information that Harry thought he’d heard something moving about through the walls, she seemed determined in her belief it was a spider or a senior student responsible for the attacks (probably a Slytherin).

“She actually sounded a bit suspicious that you hadn’t said something earlier to her, Harry,” Neville said apologetically. “So I didn’t want to mention about it being a snake. In case she thought that meant you were ordering it around.”

“Do you think we should’ve told the teachers about what it has been hissing in Parseltongue?” Harry worried, chewing at his bottom lip.

Neville hesitated. “She’s heard about the petition to get rid of Dumbledore, Harry. Draco had someone give Dumbledore his copy. She didn’t exactly _say_ it outright, but I think she’s rather vexed with you right now, and uninclined to give weight to your opinions.”

Harry sighed. Translated from the pure-blood lingo that meant she was really angry and wouldn’t listen to a word he said. It looked like it was going to be up to them. Unless…

“I don’t suppose you want to try asking Professor Snape for help?” he asked Neville hesitantly.

“I’d rather be petrified, actually,” said Neville. “Have you got Wrackspurts in your head, to suggest such a thing?”

So he guessed that settled that. Snape would probably just call them idiots and insist it was a spider, anyway. He wondered what Wrackspurts were, but from context the phrase didn’t sound very polite. It sounded familiar though, like he’d heard it in passing. Something to look up later.

“Oh, one last thing, Professor McGonagall had a message from Dumbledore for you. He says to remember that if you ever need help, you’re still welcome to call on him for aid. Something like that.”

“Call on him for help? While he’s up in his secret office guarded by a gargoyle you need the password to get past?”

Neville shrugged. Everyone knew Dumbledore wasn’t quite all there.

***

As plotted out at breakfast, Harry and Neville skived off their History of Magic class the next morning, and Harry started searching the scenes of the previous petrifications for the whispers he’d heard. Neville was dispatched to the library to talk to Madam Pince about what books Hermione had been looking at before she was petrified. With instructions to _trust no-one_ and run if he heard hissing.

Storm was interested to hear about the other magical snake that might be around the castle who had attacked Harry’s friend, and wanted to help.

“ _I will help you ssseek it out, Harold. It will learn thiss castle is our territory and it must not prey on the young Clever-men!_ ”

Upon reflection, Harry thought it was an excellent idea. So he had his wand in his right hand robe pocket and a tired baby snake napping in the left pocket as he roamed the empty corridors, avoiding the occasional stray Sixth and Seventh years with free periods.

Harry hoped if he heard the whispers, he could follow them, identify the snake’s type and lair, maybe talk to it if it was easily ordered about by a Parselmouth (though he’d rather not risk it unless he had to), and then get help to deal with it so no-one else would be attacked. He was equipped with a backpack holding his dad’s old invisibility cloak (in case he needed to sneak about), a packed snack, and a notebook, quill and ink (to make notes and a map). The teachers weren’t doing anything, but if he could find proof of where its lair was, they might listen.

 _I’m a Gryffindor. Gryffindors are brave, so I have to be brave. Gryffindors don’t hesitate to do brave things, no matter how stupid and dangerous they are_ , Harry thought, giving himself a rather mixed pep talk. _Neville isn’t scared; when I heard the snake whispering about blood, he wanted to find the whisperer._ Harry crept down the corridor near Lockhart’s office listening for more whispers.

“What are you doing?” asked Draco. Harry had no idea why he’d suddenly shown up out of nowhere – he hadn’t been invited and should really be in some class, surely.

Harry was stumped. There really was no convincing explanation he could think of as to why he’d be wandering down an empty corridor occasionally pressing his ear against the walls, and he didn’t want to admit the truth – that he was monster-hunting and listening for an evil snake’s voice. “I… don’t know,” he said lamely. He hadn’t thought through what he’d say if someone caught him, he’d been in such a hurry to get started. “How about you think of a really good reason, and pretend I said it?” he said with a note of pleading optimism in his voice.

Draco tilted his head and looked at Harry thoughtfully. “How about, ‘I was jinxed by the Weasley twins with an ear-sticking spell’?”

“Yeah, that sounds good, let’s go with that,” Harry said with a grateful smile. “If anyone else comes by, I’ll pretend my ear is stuck, and you can call me an idiot and help me free. Finite will do fine. I’ll owe you a favour, obviously.” Harry pressed his ear against the wall again. He was _sure_ he’d heard the hissing noise around here somewhere. He rapped on the wall thoughtfully with his knuckles. It didn’t make any kind of obvious hollow noise, but you never knew with magic around so he’d thought it was worth a try. But all he got was a sore hand.

“ _Alohomora_! _Aparecium_!” he cast optimistically at the wall, in hopes of revealing a secret passage or some arcane obscured markings; the latter spell had shown up the hidden runes on his enchanted rocks in his snake habitat. The solid stone blocks stubbornly failed to slide aside in a dramatic fashion. “Hmmm.” He pulled his notebook out of his backpack, and made a note on his rough map of the first area he’d heard the hissing voice in the walls, and repeated the Unlocking and Revealing Charms a couple of metres further down the corridor, making some more notes.

“I’ll be at this a while,” he said apologetically. “And it might be a bit dangerous. Not _very_ dangerous _._ I hope. But if I say run, I’d advise you to run.” Draco just nodded politely and watched him curiously, before turning to glance around the hallways in both directions like he was keeping a lookout.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” Harry asked, chatting while pressing a number of carvings in the stone blocks on one section of wall, in hopes of triggering a secret passage to open. It didn’t work.

“Shouldn’t you?” Draco smirked in response.

“This is more important.”

“So is helping you. Are you going to explain what you’re up to now?”

“I’m not the Heir, you know,” Harry said, dodging Draco’s question. He appreciated Draco’s help, but didn’t trust him so much he wanted to explain everything.

“So you keep saying.”

“Are you going to _listen_ when I say it?”

“Probably not. But I will agree with you when others are around who don’t know the real truth, obviously.”

Harry sighed, giving it up as a futile argument, and going back to his testing for secret passages.

Eventually Harry was satisfied that if the corridor outside Lockhart’s office had any secret passages or invisible doors, they were beyond his level of ability to detect. He had one last thing to try, however.

“ _Ssstorm, wake up_ ,” he hissed, fishing the shimmering little snakelet out of his pocket and sitting it on his palm, where it sat in a little tangled ball.

“It’s so cute all curled up!” said Draco admiringly. “And uh, no doubt it will be very magically powerful and impressive in due course.”

“ _Harold? Is there a threat? Should I hissss at thiss person?_ ” Storm asked, untwining himself from his twisted knot.

“ _No, he was only sssaying you were cute. And how impressive you will be when you’re grown_.”

“ _I like him_. _Tell him I wouldn’t eat him, even if I was big enough_.”

“He says he likes you,” translated Harry. Draco looked pleased. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

Harry hissed an explanation of what he wanted Storm to do – slither around and see if he could tell if a snake had been by this area, or if there were any secret entrances or exits he could find.

“Nothing, huh?” he said disappointedly after it had slithered around curiously for a while. He marked a note on his map. “On to the next area then.”

“I need to get going to Transfiguration,” apologised Draco. “McGonagall won’t let it slide if I don’t show up.”

“That’s fine. Neville’s covering for me in the next class, so I’m good for now. I appreciate your help and your discretion,” Harry said, giving a little bow and offering his hand to shake.

“You’re welcome,” Draco said. “Will you require any further assistance?”

“No thank you,” Harry replied, and Draco bowed in farewell before heading off.

 _He’s going to be so embarrassed and angry when he eventually realises I’m really no-one special_ , mused Harry. _Still, he can’t say I didn’t try and tell him_.

Searching the corridor outside the hospital wing was next on his list – it was where Colin had been petrified. It was isolated enough that people shouldn’t spot him poking around at the carved roses on the staircase balustrades. He found a gargoyle that flapped its wings when you tickled its tummy, a special step on the marble staircase that you could cast the Unlocking Spell on to cause the vertical riser section of it to slide open to reveal a hollow area to hide things inside (Storm found a small bag of old Galleons in there, which Harry pocketed). He got very excited for a moment when he found a secret passage behind a suit of armour that opened when you shook the armour’s hand, but following it he emerged (invisible in his father’s cloak) from behind a tapestry into just another corridor near the Muggle Studies classroom, which was a disappointment. Still, it was a possible clue. He noted it down. He also noted that searching for invisible runes was a good technique for finding clues – he’d found a few engraved into the armour’s gauntlet that lit up with a soft glow under the Revealing Charm.

After lunch, it was Neville’s turn to do some investigating, while Harry covered for him at Charms (he planned to tell Professor Flitwick that Neville thought he might have sprained his ankle on a trick step).

“I want you to take Storm with you, alright? I’ll just explain to him what’s going on.”

“If you think it’ll help. Make sure he won’t bite me.”

“ _I’m going to give you to my friend Neville to carry, I want you to help him investigate whenever he putss you down. Sssee if you can find any sssigns of a sssnake’ss possible lair, or any hidden thingss. And be nice to him – he’s my best friend._ ”

“ _Except for **me**_.”

“ _He’s my best Clever-man friend_ ,” Harry diplomatically clarified.

Neville found Harry after Charms with good news.

“We found something! I think. Storm seemed markedly excited by something outside the library – I noted down where on the map,” he whispered excitedly to Harry. “I think it might be where they found Hermione.”

“ _I’m cold_ ,” complained Storm, slithering from Neville’s wrist to Harry’s. “ _Make the warm magic again, Clever-man_.”

Harry cast a Warming Charm on Storm with a practised ease that impressed Neville, and asked his snake what he had found with Neville.

“He says there was a smell-taste of snake around the area he did a dance for you at,” Harry translated happily for Neville after a hissed conversation with Storm. “I think we’d both better get to Potions, but after that we can go back there and have a more thorough look around. Oh, and did you have any luck in the library itself this morning?”

“No, I regret to inform you that Hermione had reshelved all her books before she departed the library. Madam Pince thought she was browsing the Care of Magical Creatures section, but that in of itself is not much of a clue. And she dropped her bag next to where she was petrified – lots of stuff spilled out everywhere. She had her wand out when they found her, so I think she knew someone or something was about to attack. I guess it didn’t do her much good, though.”

Unfortunately, Neville was a bit overexcited and inattentive in class that afternoon, and got a detention from Professor Snape after his Hair-Raising Potion somehow managed to melt a hole in his cauldron. Harry wasn’t sure how he’d managed it, unless he’d left out the rat tails altogether and put tubeworms in by mistake. And even then he’d have to have done something else wrong – the potion just wasn’t that volatile. Storm napped through the whole class in Harry’s pocket, luckily undetected by anyone.

While poor Neville was in detention, Harry covered the attack area outside the library on the Fourth Floor in a grid pattern with Storm’s tired help. Storm pinpointed a likely trail of “smell-taste” of another snake leading to a nearby boys’ bathroom.

A couple of girls and a boy came laughing around the corridor corner and shrieked to see a little shimmering iridescent snake slithering about on the floor, flicking its tongue in and out to taste the air.

“A snake! Hex it!” one particularly scared looking girl shrieked.

“You will _not_ curse my snake,” Harry said coldly, drawing his wand and stepping in front of Storm protectively. “He is _not_ venomous, nor is he dangerous. So just… move along. We’re not doing anything wrong, and you’re not permitted to cast spells in the corridors in any case.” He got ready to cast a Shield spell – he was much better at it than he used to be.

“The Boy Who Lived has a _snake_?”

“But you’re a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin.”

“It was a gift from my cousin, and as I can talk to it, it’s a very fine pet,” he said, calming down a little as he saw they weren’t going to attack it on sight after all.

They walked off muttering about him being a Parselmouth, and maybe the Heir of Slytherin, but as it would have been three against one and they were all a few years older than him, he was just happy they’d left peacefully.

“ _Come on Ssstorm_ ,” he hissed in the sibilant language of Parseltongue, “ _those nasty ssstudents have gone, and I think we should check another corridor which **also** had a bathroom nearby an attack sssite_.”

“ _What did they sssay about me? One of them was very loud_.”

A passing student bowed politely to him, hearing him hissing at his snake. Harry nodded back.

“ _They were ssscared, and threatened to attack. I protected you._ ”

Storm seemed torn between being appreciative, and wanting to boast about how he was a very dangerous snake who could look after himself. “ _Maybe we can take turnss looking after each other?_ ” the little snake suggested eventually after a little chatter on the topic.

“ _That sssoundss fine to me_ ,” said Harry encouragingly. “ _I’m glad to have sssuch a beautiful sssnake to be my friend and watch out for me. And I will watch out for you in turn. Your lovely rainbow ssscaless aren’t as resistant to magic as the dull ssscaless of dragonss, so I want to keep you sssafe from ssspellss._ ”

The corridor where Filch’s cat was petrified didn’t have any scents that Storm could pick up, nor secret passages that Harry could find. The adjoining girls’ bathroom, however, proved more promising. Not that it was particularly remarkable looking at first – it was grimy and ill-kept – even the stone washbasins were chipped and cracked. And the girls’ ghost haunting the place was, frankly, mental. Harry was polite to her all the same, though. The sobbing girl yelled at him for intruding in a girls’ bathroom, but accepted his apology nicely enough. Apparently she’d heard about him from Hermione and Ron, who’d brewed the Polyjuice Potion in her bathroom earlier in the year. When he explained that he was trying to find a snake that had attacked Hermione, she became a bit more co-operative and introduced herself.

“If it kills you, you’re welcome to share my bathroom,” she said, in a horrifying attempt to be flirtatious.

“Uh… that’s very kind of you, Miss Warren.”

“You can call me Myrtle, if you like,” she said with a ghostly smile.

“I would rather not presume, this early in our acquaintance,” he said awkwardly. It seemed to satisfy her sensibilities well enough, and luckily she didn’t take offence. “If you’ll excuse me, my snake and I will be having a look around.”

Storm said the room smelled of snake everywhere, but a scent trail led clearly to one of the sinks, that had a tiny engraving of a snake on the side of the copper tap.

“ _Here_ ,” hissed Storm. “ _Here is where the trail endss_.”

Harry’s spells failed to reveal anything useful.

“ _Try sssomething else. It must move sssomehow_ ,” speculated Storm.

“ _I tried to make it open already_ -” explained Harry, but as he spoke the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. Then the whole sink sank out of sight into the floor, revealing a large pipe or tunnel exposed in the floor, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

“ _Password activated! That’ss cool_ ,” Harry said.

“ _Be careful_ ,” said Storm worriedly. “ _I don’t want the other sssnake to ssswallow you_.”

Harry took a cautious few quiet steps back from the sink and drew his wand. “ _Ssswallow me? Really? Do you think it’ss big enough to do that?_ ”

“ _Oh yess. It must be a mighty ssserpent indeed to leave sssuch a trail_.”

“ _Bigger than me_?”

“ ** _Much_** _bigger than you. Much, much, bigger and longer. Bigger than mother. **Maybe** sssmall enough to fit in that burrow_.” Harry looked at the enormous hole in the tiled floor.

“ _Ssseal up. Close. Finish_ -” Harry babbled rapidly in Parseltongue, and on his second try the sink returned to its previous position, to his great relief.

“ _Alright. That’ss enough being a Gryffindor; I’ve reached my limit of stupid for the day. Now I’m getting a teacher_. _Why didn’t you tell me you sssmell-tasted a really **giant** ssserpent earlier?_ ”

“ _You never asked how big it was_ ,” Storm said. “ _I thought you knew. Isn’t it obviouss?_ ”

***

Harry and Neville (and Storm) had a secretive conference late that night. Neville was open to the idea of exploring the tunnel and finding more proof, but very nervous when he heard how big Storm guessed the snake was.

“There’s not too many snakes that grow bigger than a Rainbow Serpent, and I don’t think it’s one of those, because they’re native to Australia,” said Harry. “I know the Peruvian Vipertooth dragon, the Quetzalcoatl, Basilisks, and sea serpents are really big. I think maybe the non-magical anaconda might be bigger too.”

“ _Did the big sssnake sssmell-taste like another Rainbow Ssserpent?” he asked Storm, just in case. “Or anything else you recognised?_ ”

“ _No. But then, I am only recently hatched. I haven’t met many other typess of sssnakess. It is not the one I have met that has three headss that likess to fight_.”

Harry turned to Neville to translate for him, “He says _it’ss not another Rainbow Ssserpent or a Runespoor_.”

“He says, ‘Shhssah sss sshahssass’ with a bunch more hissing?” said Neville. “I am in your debt for that translation, Harry,” he said with a grin.

“Whoops. That is, he says it’s not a Rainbow Serpent or a Runespoor,” said Harry, concentrating a little harder. Parseltongue felt very natural, and hard to distinguish from English. When he thought about snakes too much, his words came out hissed, and he had to be alert to notice the difference in his speech. He’d noticed sometimes his tongue felt a little different, kind of tingly, when speaking Parseltongue. But it was hard to spot.

“Well, I doubt it’s a sea serpent,” said Neville.

“But it’s hanging around bathrooms. And they might lead to the lake; they certainly won’t connect to a modern sewer system. It could be a kind of freshwater version.”

“To the library?”

“Yes, in the morning, I think. We’ll see if we can narrow it down a bit more.”

Before breakfast, the duo rose early.

“I’m watching you, Potter,” warned Ron from his bed as he saw them dress and get ready to go hours earlier than usual. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re behind Hermione being in the hospital wing. Because I do. And sooner or later, I’m going to catch you at it. I saw you skiving yesterday, and I know you’re up to something.”

“You think I attacked her?” Harry asked, hurt.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” said Neville. “Harry would never turn on Hermione. We’re friends.”

“That’s just what he _wants_ you to think. He’s friends with Malfoy, now. Probably the price of that was getting rid of Hermione. Don’t be fooled, Neville! You can’t trust him! You have to be careful!”

“Let’s go,” Harry said gruffly. “If he wants to be an idiot, leave him to it. I guess the rest of the family got all the brains.”

Neville hesitated. “I’m going to try and talk him around, Harry. Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”

“Well… yes. But I don’t think he’ll listen.”

“Potter’s right about that. He’s turned on his fan, he’s turned on his friend, he’s turned on Dumbledore, and he’s turning his back on Gryffindor too – to hang out with _Malfoy_ who’s dying to lick his boots and help with any evil plans he’s brewed up. Why are you still friends with him?”

“I’ll catch you up, Harry,” said Neville firmly. Harry looked at him in surprise. “Uh, if that’s alright with you? I mean, if you think it’s a good idea. I don’t want to be a bother. So if you-” Neville backslid from his confidence and babbled in the face of Harry’s body-language that screamed scepticism and irritation.

“-It’s alright, Neville. Good luck, okay?” Harry interrupted, pasting on an encouraging smile. He popped Storm in his pocket (who went back to sleep) and headed out.

After an hour’s research in the library, Neville still hadn’t joined him, but Harry was pretty sure the monster was a Basilisk. The sea serpent seemed restricted to oceans and was never found in freshwater lakes (there wasn’t one in Loch Ness after all, and it didn’t do well on land in any case so how would it attack students), the Peruvian Vipertooth would eat people if it got the chance not petrify them, the Quetzalcoatl wasn’t especially aggressive and was actually quite noisy when attacking, and many magical serpents were just too small to be contenders (if Storm’s judgement was right that it was larger than an adult Wonambi). The Basilisk was at one time native to Britain, associated with Dark wizards, and could plausibly be a previous pet of Salazar Slytherin due to its potential extreme longevity (or perhaps it had produced young). He wasn’t sure why people were petrified rather than dead – he thought it was possible that a young (or very ancient?) Basilisk had a less fatal stare than a healthy adult in its prime, just like Storm’s abilities would be different when he was older. Storm didn’t seem to do much yet; he was all talk.

Harry went to Lockhart with a proposition. “I can tell you exactly what the monster plaguing Hogwarts is, where it hides, and how to slay it at minimal risk to yourself,” bargained Harry. “In exchange for this information, which you can use to be the hero of the hour if you like, I would like you to give all the proceeds from interviews about it to go towards medical expenses to pay for early un-petrification and counselling for the petrified students,” said Harry.

“One quarter,” haggled Lockhart, “and obviously no percentage of royalties.”

“Two thirds of interview income and your advance on the book, _and_ five per cent ongoing royalties,” responded Harry. “And you won’t be able to open the secret passage to find its lair without me, so you _need_ my help.”

“Alright!” laughed Lockhart. “A quarter of the interview fees, and five per cent of the royalties. And that’s if you help out with promoting my book. I won’t go any higher!” he said, with a smile. “Let’s hear all about this low-risk monster slaying opportunity then.”

Harry told him that the monster was probably a Basilisk and explained his reasoning why he thought so, that he’d discovered it was lairing in a tunnel under the school accessible via Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and that it could be easily dispatched by a rooster’s crow. And that it certainly _wasn’t_ an Acromantula.

 “You’ve certainly done your research,” said Lockhart, pulling a rather Muggle-looking old notebook out of his desk drawer and jotting down some notes as Harry talked.

“I was very motivated to find out, sir. And with Storm and Neville to help, it turned out to be quite easy in the end to find out where the snake must be hiding. We’re sure we have the main entrance pinpointed, I just didn’t want to enter without a sure-fire way to defeat the monster – or preferably for someone else to do it. Besides, I don’t think I know where to find a rooster.”

“Yes, you know a lot,” said Lockhart in an absent-minded tone of voice. “I think… too much.” He looked up from the old black notebook he was writing in with a vacant look in his eyes, picking up his wand off the desk and pointing it swiftly at Harry. “ _Stupefy_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to 01asdf whose comments in a review some time ago on “A New Kind of Normal” prompted me to rethink how quickly and differently a smart!Harry might tackle finding out about the Basilisk. I had to do some rewriting and change some plot elements, but I think the fic is better for it!
> 
> See http://members.optusnet.com.au/~pelari/potter/Sunbeam-snake-%20juvenile2.png for an image of a juvenile sunbeam snake (which looks similar to Storm, but less magically rainbow coloured than he is) all curled up in a knotted ball on Harry’s hand, that Draco found adorable. :) (Go up a level to the potter folder if it doesn't display right.)


	21. Deja Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry awakes, under threat from his DADA teacher who has unexpectedly turned on him, and is up to something highly illegal. It gives him a feeling of deja vu.

**_April, 1993_ **

Harry awoke tied up tightly in magically conjured ropes, and lying on his side on cold smooth grey flagstones in an underground chamber. He had an odd sense of déjà vu as Professor Lockhart walked into his limited field of vision twirling his wand, blocking Harry’s view of the stone pillars with carved stone serpents twined around them. Harry decided he was never going to trust another Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher ever again. Even if Quirrell was a nice guy who’d just been driven to desperate measures, he’d attacked and kidnapped him too. The curse on the position must be real. Or maybe he himself was just fundamentally unlucky. Or overly trusting. No more trusting adults with important information!

“Ahh good, you are awake,” said Lockhart, with a smooth drawl that didn’t sound quite like his usual voice. “Time to answer a few questions.”

“No. I’m telling you nothing more about _anything_ ,” said Harry determinedly.

“The brave Gryffindor hero,” mused Lockhart with a sneer. “Young Miss Weasley bored me with endless tales of you. How heroic you were – and all things pure and good. How _tragically_ misunderstood you were, and how she was one of the few who really _understood_ you, even though you never actually spoke to her. Lockhart was complimentary about you too in his own way, when I could _finally_ get him to stop writing endlessly about himself and got him to talk about his protégé instead.”

“Who… are you?” asked Harry. This wasn’t Lockhart. This was someone else… perhaps imitating him with Polyjuice Potion?

“I am a fragment of memory, preserved in a diary for years, brought to life because a foolish little girl and an even more foolish teacher poured their heart and magic into me. My past was glorious! A reign of terror as the greatest Dark wizard who ever lived.”

With some precise gestures in the air with a wand that Harry recognised unhappily as being his very own holly wand, the person who looked like Professor Lockhart wrote the words, “I am Lord Voldemort” in glowing letters of fire that hung in the air, without a single incantation. Harry would have been more impressed if he wasn’t currently tied up and at the crazy man’s mercy.

“He’s dead. Everyone knows he’s dead. Who are you really, and what do you want with me?”

 “Were you not even listening to me? Why should I explain myself further to an imbecile?”

That was a good question. Harry wondered why he was bothering to try, and what he wanted. “I’m sorry,” he said, “it’s all my fault.” He didn’t mean it. It was just what you said when someone scary was angry at you.

It seemed to mollify the man’s temper. “My original physical form may have been destroyed, but I am a part of Lord Voldemort’s _spirit_ , preserved by means beyond your limited comprehension. I have gone further towards immortality than any wizard before me! There is just one thing I want to know from you – how did you defeat me?”

Wow, alright, so he was some kind of ghost. Possibly possessing Professor Lockhart. It was possible he really was Voldemort, Harry guessed. He’d never heard that ghosts could do that, but it sounded more plausible than many things in the magical world.

“How did I defeat the Dark Lord as a baby, you mean? I don’t know.”

“And will you still be so unsure if _his_ life hangs in the balance on the veracity of your answer?” not-Lockhart said, pointing dramatically to one side.

“Who? All I can see is the floor and some pillars with too many giant snakes on them,” said Harry honestly. He didn’t have a great view lying on his side all tied up.

The man gestured with Harry’s wand and Harry floated up to a sitting position. The cavernous room he was in looked very dramatic now he could see the rows of massive snake-themed pillars, imposing giant statue of a bearded wizard, and what looked like a decorative large pool of water (or it would be decorative if it wasn’t muddy and stagnant). There were points on the walls that seemed to glow with a magical light. But he had more immediate and important things to worry about. Harry was seated just inside a large circle drawn with what he guessed was chalk or paint, runes running all around the circumference. Lying directly opposite him on the other side of the circle was Neville, also tied up with magically conjured black ropes, with a red candle next to him. On his left was Ginny Weasley with a yellow candle near her head, and on his right was an older blonde girl he didn’t recognise, with a blue candle. All around the outside of the circle was a drawing of a serpent biting its tail, and in the very middle of it all was another, smaller circle. In the flickering candlelight he could just make out a black book, a silver goblet, and some kind of sharp-looking dagger.

“Neville!” he said worriedly, but the boy was deeply unconscious and didn’t respond.

“So… we’re all in… a magic circle, calling on the four cardinal directions and elements,” he said flatly. “I must be Earth, to complete it. Enclosed by Jörmungandr, one of the few positive representations of snakes wizards have, maybe to further represent the circle as the world. Or maybe strengthen some kind of boundary ward. The runes…  I have no idea. And we’re all going to be what… sacrificed in some kind of Dark ritual?”

There was a slow repetitive clap from not-Lockhart. He supposed he may as well consider him Voldemort. At least part of him was the Dark Lord. Allegedly.

“You must have done some interesting and Dark reading over your past two years here, Mr. Potter. Not as feebleminded as you first appear, are you? The ritual is for the Greater Good, as that old fool would say. You should feel honoured.” He strode into the circle past Ginny (stepping over the runes and white line as he did so), picked up the dagger from the centre, and moved over to Neville. “Now, an answer to my question?” he said, picking Neville’s unconscious head up by a rough grip on his hair and holding the dagger’s blade to his throat.

“You won’t kill him. Not yet. It would ruin the ritual,” said Harry, his voice quavering. He was pretty sure. But you never knew what a crazy person would do, really. “But even if you hurt him I still wouldn’t know how I defeated the Dark Lord, I swear. Please don’t hurt Neville – I really don’t know. My best guess would be my mother developed some kind of advanced Shield Charm, but I honestly have no idea. It’s a guess.”

Lockhart looked at him assessingly. “Hmm. I think you’re telling the truth.” He dropped Neville’s head and it clonked on the stone flagstones. Harry hoped he was alright. He hoped that a bump on the head would be the worst thing that happened to Neville tonight, but he didn’t like how the Dark Lord’s ghost had indirectly confirmed his guess about sacrificing them all. His mind worked frantically as he tried to think about how to get out of this, while tied up, helpless, and without his wand. Maybe if he kept him busy long enough, someone would notice they were missing and come and save them?

“You’ve certainly got an uh… impressive runic circle laid out here. But I do wonder why you picked some random date in April for a magical ritual. Are the planets in some particular alignment?” he said, hoping the man would rant and explain some more. Didn’t villains all love to rant? This one seemed to be that way inclined.

“A very observant question, young student,” the man said, twirling his wand again in a way that still seemed eerily familiar. He realised it reminded him a little of Professor Quirrell.

“My hold on young Weasley wasn’t strong enough at Samhain for such an endeavour, and gathering the strength of a mere cat was all that could be managed. I was ready at the Winter Solstice with the harvested magical power of two Muggle-borns, but she shut me away over Yule. She was so apologetic about her brothers’ interference afterwards but it was too late. My moment had passed and my strength waned. Imbolc didn’t have the right power I needed for my ritual, so I decided to wait for Beltane,” he explained, then grew angry.

“Then _you_ started interfering, and almost ruined everything. I barely managed to persuade the idiotic girl to hand me over to her most _courageous_ and fortuitously empty-headed teacher. It was a superior choice compared to Dumbledore or the Aurors she expected to arrive at Hogwarts at any moment, thanks to your ridiculous _petition_.

“The Basilisk’s choice of your Mudblood friend for its attack was unfortunate, because it prompted you to stick your nose in where it wasn’t wanted. You uncovered so many clues that Lockhart _almost_ felt he could do something about the situation. If only you’d waited to investigate until that old fool was expelled from the school, but your precipitate actions forced me into acting before I was ready! You and these other busybodies!” He gestured at the other students tied up in the circle.

“Ginny you possessed, yes? And Neville helped me investigate. But what did that other girl do?” Harry asked. “I don’t even know her - I didn’t tell her anything, you could let her go.”

“Miss Tolipan?” said the man, glancing over at the young blonde teenager on the floor. “She spotted Lockhart coming out of a girls’ bathroom after I’d had him release the Basilisk, and threatened to report him to the Headmaster for it. She didn’t see the Basilisk obviously, but I could not risk her exposing his unusual behaviour to the old fool and bringing him under scrutiny. Of course, she cannot recall the incident. Lockhart does not have much use other than as a vessel for my spirit, but the one skill he _is_ rather capable at is Memory Charms. Still, I believe it is best to tidy up all loose ends.”

“What do all the runes mean?” Harry asked, stalling for more time.

The possessed Lockhart gazed at him thoughtfully. “No, I think that’s quite enough chatter. I have a ritual to begin. With the original truly gone from the world, it falls to _me_ to assume the mantle of Lord Voldemort and restore the wizarding world to greatness and ensure our future and our freedom. Lockhart’s soul needs to be chained down deep inside this vessel, so that I may possess it permanently without any further resistance from him, paltry though it has been thus far.” He stalked to the very centre of the circle, putting the decorative gem-set dagger down next to the goblet and drawing Harry’s wand. “It’s a pity he didn’t possess any plain black or white robes more suited to a ritual of this magnitude. This turquoise monstrosity with peacock feathers embroidered on the hem will have to be _burnt_ later,” he said, picking at the gaudy sleeve’s hem distastefully. “Of course, that will hardly be the most drastic change to his appearance. His body won’t last me forever but it should hopefully last a couple of years before deformities begin or the rot begins to spread to his face-”

He cut off abruptly with an odd choking noise, and his hand spasmed as he dropped Harry’s wand, which clattered to the stone flagstones. Harry looked around with wild hope, but couldn’t see anyone entering the chamber to help him, and the other hostages still looked deeply unconscious.

“You dare… fight me?” choked out the spirit within Lockhart. He coughed and spluttered, and his arms twitched with tiny spasmodic movements as he took a stumbling step out of the innermost chalk circle as if thrown off balance.

“Fight him, Professor! _Fight!_ ” Harry called out encouragingly, realising what was happening. He tried to think of what would be most motivating for his fame-obsessed teacher. “You don’t want to be trapped inside your own body unable to do anything! _Every single one_ of your fans will desert you if you lose! Because you’ll be a decaying, ugly _child-murdering_ monster of a Dark Lord that _everyone hates_ and can’t bear to look at! The Aurors will hunt-”

But that seemed to be motivating enough. With a dreadful scream, Lockhart’s spine arched backwards terribly as he flung his head back with his mouth opened wide, teeth bared to the ceiling in a pained gaping grimace. A great cloud of noxious black smoke issued forth from his mouth, and roiled to the ground like an earth-bound cloud. Lockhart smiled, briefly triumphant, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled bonelessly to the ground, unconscious.

Harry started wiggling about in his bonds, hoping to find a weak point, but he seemed to be tightly wrapped up indeed, and only succeeding in throwing himself off balance enough to fall to the ground on his right side.

He watched helplessly as the cloud of smoke congealed into the shape of a person, then the ghost of the Dark Lord materialised. It looked like a dark-haired teenage boy, clad in Hogwarts robes.

“You’re not the Dark Lord after all! You’re just a kid!” he said, startled.

“I _am_ Lord Voldemort! Once I was a mere boy, but Tom Riddle was no fit name for the glory that awaited me! Me! A descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself!” The spirit tried to pick up the ritual dagger, but hissed angrily as his ghostly hand passed straight through it. “I shall not be so easily thwarted. This ritual _will_ go on.”

The ghost stalked out of the circle and spun to face the statue of the bearded wizard, and called out in a hissing voice that Harry recognised as Parseltongue, “ _Ssspeak to me, Ssslytherin, greatest of the Hogwartss Four!”_ There was a noise of shifting stone as the statue’s mouth started opening wider and wider, and as he glanced at Voldemort’s spirit, he saw he had closed his eyes. Harry thought it might be wise to do likewise, when he heard the spirit’s next words.

“ _Mighty Basilisk! I command you to ssslay these four children in the circle! But leave the man in the centre alive! He shall again be made the vessel for my ssspirit!”_ Harry was terrified. To meet a Basilisk’s gaze was deadly – since even Headless Nick had been petrified, it must be dangerous for ghosts too, which was why Voldemort… Tom… had closed his eyes.

There was an odd scraping noise – Harry thought it might be a giant serpent coming out of the statue and onto the floor.

“ _I am bound to protect the apprenticess here, not to ssslay_ ,” hissed a new voice argumentatively, with an odd booming resonance for such sibilant sounds.

“ _Your argumentss on the matter remain tiresome! You will do as I command, for I am the Heir of Ssslytherin!_ ” yelled the spirit angrily.

“ _Well maybe I’m the Heir too!_ ” hissed Harry optimistically. “ _How about you listen to **me** instead, because I don’t want you to kill anyone!_ ”

“ _The Commander is right!_ ” hissed a tiny voice from his left pocket. His little snake Storm slithered about and he could feel wiggling out of his pocket and then it went out between a gap in the conjured ropes.

“ _Close your eyess, Ssstorm! The Basilisk kills with a glance!_ ” he warned worriedly.

“ _I cannot_ ,” Storm replied, to Harry’s concern, before speaking more loudly to address the others in the room. “ _My master is a Clever-man! He knows the special things, the magic, and is a ssstudent! This man is sssupposed to teach the young Clever-oness! Yet he ssseekss to sssteal their livess! He is an egg-eater, a young-devourer. My master Harold is a Parselmouth too – you must ssserve him first! He is the best one. Attack the egg-eater!”_

“ _What is that? A tiny ssserpent? Give no heed to the wordss of one barely out of the ssshell! I am your master! Obey me!_ ”

“ _What proof do you have that your master is another Heir, snakeling?_ ” hissed the loud voice of the Basilisk.

As they argued and as Harry wondered if he’d make it out of this alive or not, Harry’s mind drifted as he suddenly remembered Dumbledore’s words to him.

 _“Remember Harry, that if you’re ever in trouble here at Hogwarts, you just need to call on me and I will do whatever I can to aid you.”_ The memory of Dumbledore’s calm and reassuring offer echoed in his mind, and Harry realised that there _was_ someone whom he could call on in a time of danger, who might help him even while he was hidden away in the bowels of the school. For he _did_ seem to eavesdrop everywhere, in his own mysterious way.

Elsewhere in the chamber, it seemed that Storm’s arguments were sounding quite persuasive to the Basilisk. Storm hissed in a wheedling little voice, “ _He has no sssmell-taste ssso how can he be real? And I can’t sssee any warm in him! My master is real! And he is just as good at ssspeaking to sssnakess, and **he** is alive! Protect Harold!_ ”

Voldemort’s spirt was becoming enraged, and as he hissed angrily at the snakes, Harry used the cover of the noise to call for more help. Someone whom despite being more than a little bit crazy, and occasionally dangerous, might be trusted to help him in a time of need. Someone who would do anything they could to help protect him, when push came to shove.

“Dobby! Dobby, I’m in dreadful danger and I need you to come help me!” he whispered quietly but urgently, hoping that the little elf was still listening out for him. “But please, be quiet and make sure your eyes are closed when you arrive! Dobby! Help me!!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice Tolipan in this fic is a half-blood Ravenclaw student two years older than Harry (so currently in 4th year). Her name appears on the DA membership list in the OotP movie, but she does not otherwise appear detailed in canon. (Most likely portrayed by actress Siobhan Ellen Williams in the movie, she has blonde hair and blue eyes.)


	22. The Heir of Slytherin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will the aid of a pet snake and a house-elf be enough to help Harry to triumph over the evil spirit from the diary?

**_April, 1993_ **

“Did Harry Potter call for Dobby? Dobby has come to help. With his eyes closed,” whispered a high-pitched squeaky voice, much to Harry’s relief.

“Dobby! Don’t open your eyes, or you might be petrified or killed, okay?” Harry replied with a note of urgency in his voice. “Can you get my wand for me? There’s a man lying on the ground in the middle of a circle, and three other students lying on the ground around the circumference. The wand is on the ground near the man.”

There was a soft thumping noise like Dobby was hitting himself. “Oh! Dobby is very sorry, but Dobby is not permitted to touch a wand! It is forbidden for house-elves!”

Harry thought the prohibition only applied to using a wand, it was stricter than he thought! “Shh! Don’t worry about it! Can you untie me then?”

“Oh yes, sir!” he whispered back excitedly. “Dobby can do that!” There was a snap of fingers, and Harry felt the ropes fall away and disappear.

“Great! Now stay still and quiet!” His muscles were cramping badly, so Harry crawled into the centre of the circle and felt around until he found Lockhart’s unconscious body. And his wand, nearby on the ground! He picked it up with an enormous feeling of relief.

“ _It is a trick! You are ssstupid if you listen to the ghost-man!_ ” His loyal little snake was continuing to argue his case for him.

“ _He cannot command me without a wand. I shall not listen to him anymore. I will rest. Your master must prove himself the rightful Heir by defeating thiss other claimant in a duel_ ,” pronounced the Basilisk. “ _Both have a legitimate claim_.” There was a soft susurrus of scales sliding on the floor, though Harry guessed from the noise that it was just moving about rather than leaving the hall.

“ _Then I shall reclaim my host, or one of the otherss, and you shall sssee there is none ssstronger than I!_ ” cried the ghost of Voldemort.

“ _Fumos,_ ” said Harry very quietly, whipping his wand around in a circular motion to hopefully create a concealing ring of dark grey smoke around him, with a hole in the middle so he could see his immediate environs without seeing the snake. He shifted to be sure that his back was to where he had last heard the giant snake moving about, and peeked cautiously at the ground, which looked clear, and raised his eyes slowly to see a giant ring of smoke just outside the chalked outline of the snake on the outside of the magic circle. It was a larger hollow than he’d envisaged – perhaps the magic circle was affecting his spell.

He jogged quickly over to Dobby, who had his eyes tightly closed and his hands plastered over his mouth.

“Dobby, you can open your eyes now,” he said very softly. As Dobby did so, the little elf caught sight of the black book lying in the centre of the circle, and let out a frightened moan.

“ _Hide your head ssso that you do not endanger uss while we battle_ ,” hissed Voldemort to the Basilisk.

“ _My Clever-man will defeat you, egg-eater!_ ” hissed Storm.

“Dobby must not touch the book,” he said, directing his wide eyes to Harry. “Dobby’s master has _forbidden_ him to touch that book.” His eyes widened further as if trying to give Harry a clue by sheer force of will.

“Well, Mr. Potter. Let us see how well you duel while tied up… or possibly already dead,” came the drawling voice of the young Dark Lord. There were no footsteps to hear, but it sounded like the spirit was returning to the circle.

Dobby looked panicked. “Dobby must hide!”

“Go! Hide! Stay quiet!” whispered Harry.

“ _Finite!_ ” he tried to covertly free Neville from the ropes around him with the generic counter-spell, but while the ropes quivered they remained in place, keeping him wrapped up.

“How is it you are awake, and free!?” said the flabbergasted spirit as it walked into the circle.

“ _Incendio! Flipendo! Immobulus! Glacius!_ ” Harry didn’t waste any time firing a barrage of spells at the ghost, but they all passed harmlessly straight through him and presumably hit a wall. Harry desperately hoped they hadn’t hit the Basilisk and angered it.

“ _Alohomora!_ ” he whirled around to cast another spell at Neville, but the Unlocking Charm didn’t set him free either.

“Tch, tch. Such poor manners. I shall be with you momentarily for a proper duel, for which you are required to _bow_ before starting, you uncouth child.” Voldemort’s ghost drifted over to Lockhart, and started to lose definition and turn more smoke-like. Harry realised he’d need to act fast, and remembering both the spirit’s ranting about a diary, and Dobby’s meaningful panicked gaze, ran to the centre of the circle and snatched the book off the floor.

It felt warm, and soothing. Homey. He felt like he wanted to write in it, like he could share his deepest secrets and they would be safe in the book. It felt like it belonged to him, and he should keep it treasured and safe. It didn’t feel like a mere object, it felt more like it was a long-lost member of his family.

Harry dropped the book like a hot rock, and turned his wand on it immediately. “ _Incendio!_ ” The flagstone under it got scorched, and flames licked at Harry’s boots making him dance backwards to avoid the heat, but the book lay unharmed in the middle of the brief conflagration. If anything, it looked like the book was soaking up the flames that touched it.

“I think you shall find it more robust than your limited skills can manage to harm, but do keep trying if you wish,” said the smoky spirit, sounding darkly amused. “I am quite willing to fight duels with a tired opponent who is at a disadvantage due to magical fatigue.”

“I’m not quitting yet!” Harry gave the book a kick to move it further away from Lockhart’s body, eliciting an angry hiss from the spirit for his disrespect.

“ _Glacius! Diffindo!_ ” The book failed to freeze, and the Severing Charm didn’t so much as scratch it, let alone cut it in half. Perhaps some spells more suited to attacking books would be better? Where was Mt. Doom when you needed it?

“ _Snufflifors!_ ” He’d really hoped that one would work, but it the book failed to change form into a mouse, despite extensive practice in Transfiguration class of the _most useless spell ever_.

As the ghost turned completely to smoke and started hovering over Lockhart’s drooling open mouth, Harry grabbed the decorative silver dagger from the centre of the circle and stabbed the book fiercely - nothing again! Not even a mark!

 _Think Harry, think_ , he thought desperately to himself. _I can’t destroy it, and using spells on it might even be empowering it. Can I neutralise it? Lessen the ghost’s power?_ _Can I bury it? Stone is neutralising – but those statues and pillars are too big to break apart or move! And I haven’t managed to scratch the flagstones yet – even with Diffindo. What else is neutralising? Sand? Salt? Water? No, the pond’s not enough, it’s not running water or salt water._ The spirit was half inside Lockhart now, smoke streaming into his mouth and nostrils, and the body convulsing on the floor. His eyes fell on Lockhart’s ridiculous robe and… _silk-lined cape!_ Silk was very neutral and insulating – it didn’t conduct magic well, and could be difficult and fickle to enchant. He darted over and with help from a quick Severing Charm ripped Lockhart’s cape lining away, and quickly bundled up the diary in it, touching it as little as possible. He rolled it over and over, and as he did so Lockhart coughed as the smoke started roiling back out of his body.

It was helping, but didn’t seem to be enough on its own. He needed something more. He glanced around the chamber for inspiration, but the ring of smoke he’d cast still obscured his vision beyond the circle, which was probably for the best given there was a Basilisk out there somewhere.

“ _Harold? Are you alright?_ ” hissed his little snake, slithering into the circle.

“ _Ssstorm! You’re okay!_ ” he said with relief. “ _You were great!_ ”

“ _I was_ ,” it hissed smugly. “ _I **helped**. I protected **you** thiss time._”

“ _Why did you wait ssso long to ssspeak at first? I even forget you were there in my pocket._ ”

“ _When I realised you were in trouble, I remembered that mother sssaid to ssstrike when your prey feels sssafe. Don’t let them know when you are about to attack. Hide until the moment is right for you to succeed._ ”

“ _She was a wise sssnake,_ ” Harry agreed.

“ _Now, I have to get rid of thiss book that givess the ssspirit itss power,_ ” Harry said, poking the bundle with his foot. “ _It won’t burn and I can’t cut it up. Any ideass?_ ”

“ _Ssswallow it sso it dissolves in your belly? Ssslither away from it?_ ”

“ _Uh… no,_ ” Harry said. The ghost’s smoky form roiled and seemed to be taking the shape of a person. Maybe, like a regular ghost, it was limited in the range it could haunt, mused Harry. “Dobby!”

“Dobby is here!” called a voice from outside the circle, hidden by Harry’s concealing smokescreen.

“Can you take this book and bury it in the Forbidden Forest? Maybe under a great big rock?”

“Dobby cannot touch the book!” came the despairing response. “Or Dobby’s master will cut off his hands!”

“You don’t have to touch the book at all then,” Harry wheedled. “It’s wrapped up in a cape. I’m not asking you to touch the book, just the cape. You’re allowed to uh… get rid of rubbish, aren’t you? In fact, you don’t _really_ even know what’s inside the cape. It could be anything. It’s just some rubbish. Dangerous rubbish that needs to be buried in the forest away from everyone, with a rock on top. Without being touched. Could you do that?”

“Dobby… Dobby could do that. For Harry Potter!” The house-elf crept tentatively out of the smokescreen and into the magic circle, and gingerly picked up the edges of the cape where Harry held it out to him. With a pop, he disappeared from sight, and with that, the oily black smoke around Lockhart disappeared instantly, and his teacher’s body slumped back to the ground, convulsions ceasing immediately.

“ _Good riddance to the egg-eater_ ,” hissed his snake with satisfaction.

“ _I believe the first Heir, Tom, has gone?_ ” came a louder hiss. “ _You have defeated him?_ ”

“ _I sssuppose… yess. Yess I have,_ ” Harry’s voice firmed up as he realised the very great danger he might be in if the Basilisk decided he hadn’t won after all. “ _I’ve gotten rid of him, and I don’t believe he’ll be able to return._ ”

“ _And what orderss do you wish to try and give me, Heir?_ ”

Harry thought for a moment – some courtesy probably wouldn’t go astray with a creature able to kill him with a look or swallow him whole. “ _With the greatest respect, o noble Basilisk, I would ask that you not kill or petrify anyone._ ”

“ _I will not - unlesss attacked, or the apprenticess or Masterss are in danger, or I am called to defend Hogwartss from intruderss. Is that acceptable?_ ” it asked. Harry thought it sounded pleased.

“ _Most acceptable,_ ” he said happily. “ _Is there… can you tell me why you petrified people? And how? Because I didn’t know Basiliskss could do that. If you don’t mind explaining, that is._ ”

“ _I am old, centuriess old, and I know many thingss. If a creature seess my gaze indirectly, as in a reflection, they are frozen at the sssight of my beauty, and cannot move, but they do not die and the meat will ssstay fresh as long as is required. I did thiss to the studentss I was commanded to attack. It was what I could do to ssspare them while still following the orderss of the ssspirit-Heir. The geass ssset on me by my first master requires me to protect the young wizardss and witchess here, not hurt them._ ”

“ _You are clearly a very wise and cunning Basilisk,_ ” flattered Harry, eliciting a pleased hiss.

“ _What about **me**?_ ” sulked Storm.

“ _And **you** are a very wise, cunning, beautiful little Rainbow Ssserpent,_ ” praised Harry to the jealous little snakeling, picking it up to coil around his wrist.

“ _I am also gloriouss to behold_ ,” said the Basilisk proudly. Who knew that his practice in hollow flattery with the Dursleys would one day be employed to appease the vanity of a couple of talking snakes?

“ _I ahh, I’m sure you are, but I fear that to look upon you would lead to my death. Or turning to ssstone, which I’d also rather avoid,_ ” Harry said warily and apologetically.

“ _Be not afeared. I shall show you my tail so you may admire me sssafely._ ” Harry gasped in wonder and fear as a giant grey-green snake tail, thick as a large oak tree, came sliding through the smoke and into view in the circle.

“ _You are enormouss!_ ” he said in shock. “ _And look at the sssize of your ssscales! They’re like dinner platess!_ ”

 “ _Yess, I have been growing ssslowly these many centuriess_ ,” it said, sounding pleased. _“But if I am not needed any longer I wish to return to my ssslumber. I must guard my ssstrength, for I feed but rarely, when the enchantmentss bring fit prey to my lair._ ”

“It is done, sir!” said Dobby proudly, popping back into the room. “Eep!” he said, catching sight of the snake tail. “Dobby forgot to close his eyes!” He squeezed them tightly shut.

“Well done! It’s alright, the giant snake and I are making friends, so he won’t hurt anyone. You won’t be scared if I talk to it, will you?”

“No, sir, if Harry Potter can be brave then Dobby will be brave too. Dobby knew Harry Potter was a great wizard!”

“ _Thank you, please do return to your ssslumber within the ssstatue, if that is where you lair, noble sssir._ ”

“ _Noble lady._ ”

“ _Really?_ ” Harry hissed in surprise. “ _Well uhh, of course you’re a lady, you’re ssso… graceful._ ” He thought for a moment about the kind of praise Storm seemed to favour, and added, “ _And fierce. No doubt your enemiess would be terrified just to hear you were in pursuit of them._ ”

There was another pleased hiss. “ _And your name, young Heir? That I may ssspeak of you to your children, and your children’ss children? Mine is Custoss, for I am the Guardian of Hogwartss._ ”

“ _Harry. Harry James Potter._ ”

“ _Harold,_ ” corrected Storm. “ _His proper name is Harold, which means ‘commander’. Harry is just a sssilly name for his young friendss to use._ ”

“ _That is common for humanss, to have many namess, youngling. A name for a child, a name for the family line, a name of power, a name for friendss. Harold? Harald? It is a good name. A king’s name. I shall call you that too. Farewell young Harold, Heir of Sssalazar Ssslytherin. If you have need of me, call. But not to attack the young oness._ ”

“ _I will. Call, I mean. Not attack the ssstudentss,_ ” Harry said awkwardly.

The Basilisk’s tail whipped out of sight at a speed that Harry found, frankly, rather terrifying. He was glad he didn’t have to fight it, and could talk to it instead. He would have been dinner before he could blink! There was a low hiss of “ _Sssilence, Ssslytherin!_ ”, a grinding noise of stone, and then all was silent for a moment. Harry cast Finite to dispel the smokescreen, and saw the Chamber of Secrets was empty once more and the statue’s mouth was closed.

 “Alright, it’s safe to open your eyes, Dobby.”

Dobby was quick to unbind the other captives when asked to help, and tried to wake them up but shaking them didn’t work and he knew no magic to help, which he was quick to apologize profusely for. He also reported to Harry exactly where in the forest (and under which particular big rock) he’d buried the diary, as best he could describe.

“It is nowhere near the horse-men or the unicorns, Dobby thinks,” he added. “It seemed a quiet place. But Dobby is worried he will have to tell Master, if Master asks about his book.”

“Dobby,” Harry said seriously, “I know you cannot betray your Master and his secrets, but I was wondering, and perhaps you could hint if I guess right. Do you serve the Weasley family?”

“Oh no! They is good wizards,” Dobby shook his head firmly.

“But if Ginny Weasley had the diary first… was it a gift from your Master’s family, then?”

“Dobby could not say…” the little elf said, shiftily, looking tense and restless.

Well, that was a promising tell. “Is your Master a Professor here, or the Headmaster?”

“Professors here and Headmaster Dumblydoor is not having a house-elf that Dobby is knowing of,” Dobby said, dancing around a direct answer.

“Does your family have a student here?”

“Dobby really could not answer that!”

“That’s alright,” soothed Harry. “You don’t have to say. Because I already know the family has a son here,” he said, taking a 50/50 shot in the dark that hit true, judging by Dobby’s wide eyes.

“And he’s in… Slytherin,” he guessed. A lot of “evil wizards” were reputed to come from there; kids with former Death Eaters in their families.

Dobby shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Bingo! And come to think of it, he thought he knew exactly who… the family who’d given _him_ a diary for Yule, with some sly questions about whether he already had one or not.

 _Has Draco been helping me because he thinks I’m possessed by Voldemort_ , Harry wondered, deeply shocked by the idea. _I thought he just assumed I was the Heir of Slytherin; could there be more to his attitude? Does his family **know** what the black diary really is?_

“Dobby will have to tell,” he moaned unhappily, “unless he does not remember…” Dobby’s eyes looked especially creepily wide as he finished his sentence.

“Are you… sure?”

“You-Know-Who… it was a dreadful time, even for elves! Dobby doesn’t want to see those times return,” he said in a frightened whisper, “or to have to cut off his hands.” He shivered with fear at the thought.

Harry concentrated very hard on the spell he’d been reading up on thanks to Quirrell’s persuasive arguments in its favour (and his own practice with wanting to be able to counter it), and pointed his wand at Dobby. He hadn’t had a chance to practice on a live target but he thought it should work, and in any case it was better than risking Dobby’s hands being cut off. “Obliviate,” he said gently and carefully, concentrating on Dobby forgetting everything from the moment when he’d arrived in the chamber.

Dobby squeaked and closed his eyes. “Did Harry Potter call for Dobby? Dobby has come to help. But Dobby forgot to close his eyes!” whispered a high-pitched squeaky voice, much to Harry’s relief.

“Thank you, Dobby,” said Harry softly. “I can’t explain what’s happening, but know that you’ve been a very big help just now and you helped save my life. There’s no danger now. You can go home now or back to your duties. And Dobby?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going to try and buy you off your family if I can, if that’s alright with you. If you can’t be set free, you can look after Potter Cottage, alright?”

Dobby felt around blindly and wrapped himself around Harry’s shins, hugging them and sobbing quietly. “Harry Potter is the best wizard ever!” Then he popped away with a snap of his fingers.

Harry tried poking and shaking Neville awake without success – none of the other students would wake up either. If only he knew the reviving spell! He knew the incantation was “Rennervate”, but he didn’t remember the wand motions that Percy had used when waking up Storm. He didn’t want to get it wrong and hurt someone.

Reviving Lockhart went better – he came around with a bit of a shake, and some brackish water from the decorative pond (fetched in the silver goblet) splashed on his face. Harry was almost completely certain he wasn’t possessed, but kept his wand at his side, cautiously ready.

“Not burning _my_ robes!” muttered Lockhart angrily as he started waking up, still groggy.

 _That’s definitely Lockhart!_ Harry thought with relief.

“It’s alright Professor, you’re safe, the spirit’s gone,” he said soothingly.

“Merlin preserve! He took over my body! I was going to rot! Be a puppet in my own body!” Lockhart said frantically as he stumbled to his feet, fumbling in his robe pocket and finding his own wand there.

“Do you feel alright now, sir?”

“A bit light-headed and rather tired, a bit bruised, but nothing to… my cape!”

“Ah, well I had to use the silk lining, you see, to wrap the diary in to dampen its effects. The spirit of the Dark Lord was trying to possess you again.”

Lockhart looked woozy on his feet like he might faint. “You-Know-Who? But he’s dead. The diary said his name was Tom – Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

“Apparently that was his name when he was young, before he got his title. The diary held his ghost, somehow. Like a little piece of him.”

Lockhart shuddered. “That sounds like horrible Dark magic. Now, tell me what happened here, and then let’s get everyone out of here.” He put on a trembling smile. “Heroes of the day, that’s us now. Quite an adventure! Let’s hear the part I missed.”

Harry gave a very _brief_ rundown, leaving out his familiarity with some of the ritual circle’s symbolism, the house-elf’s name and gender (he implied it was one of his own family elves), and where the diary was deposited.

“I sent her to drop the diary in the ocean,” he lied glibly. “The deepest, darkest part she could reach safely. The ghost of the Dark Lord, if it really _was_ him, can go haunt some fish, if his cursed book even survives being immersed in running salt water for months. If worst comes to worst, the Dark Lord will be possessing a fish. Not a very useful form.” Harry rather wished he’d thought of that solution earlier, actually. It was better than dumping the diary in the Forbidden Forest. Still, he could always retrieve the diary and try that later, if research proved it was actually the best option.

“And the Basilisk that Storm had persuaded to hold off attacking returned to its hibernation the instant its master was gone,” he said, omitting the part about him being the official new Heir of Slytherin. Best to leave that bit out, he thought. He hadn’t forgotten his recent resolution to not trust anyone too much.

“Marvellous, a marvellous tale, though it could use a dram of polish. And no-one else arrived to help? We’re the only ones who know what happened?”

“Yes, just us in this room,” Harry said a little warily, not liking the look in Lockhart’s eye (despite his broad smile) or how his grip on his wand had tightened.

“Well young Harry, I am so very grateful for that,” he smiled. “That means there’s still time for me to be the hero in this story. _Obliviate!_ ”

“Protego!” Harry whipped his wand in a tight circle to cast the countering Shield Charm halfway through Lockhart’s incantation. He’d been practising it for two years now, but sometimes it was still shaky. As Lockhart’s Memory Charm lit up his wand with a glowing orb of light, he hoped desperately that his shield would hold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fumos: Used to produce a defensive cloud of dark grey smoke, this spell is covered in The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.


	23. Battles with the Basilisk!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Lockhart resolve matters to their satisfaction in the Chamber of Secrets, before departing.

**_April, 1993_ **

The shield held, much to Harry’s relief, with the Obliviate spell scattering into fragments of light as it impacted. He was pretty sure he hadn’t lost any memories. He still remembered the ghost, the Basilisk, and even Lockhart’s recent attack – surely he would’ve wiped all that from his memory if he could. Professor Lockhart, meanwhile, was looking a little shaky on his feet, like the attempted Obliviation had taken a lot out of him. Harry put on a confident mien – bluffing was going to be his best path out of this, for he was feeling a bit tired too after a lot of spellcasting. At least he knew Lockhart was a rubbish duellist.

“I think not, Professor,” said Harry, giving his wand a brief dramatic twirl. “You see, learning how to counter the Memory Charm spell was one of the first things I worked on researching at Hogwarts, after seeing my family threatened with it by Dumbledore. I assure you I’m not the easy target you hoped for, especially with you being so tired, so it would be best for you to surrender at once. We’ll let the Aurors sort you out. Unless you’d _rather_ be set on fire? Down here where no-one can repair the burns to your face in time before they scar?” Harry did _like_ Lockhart, before this attack at least. He wouldn’t really cast Incendio on him unless he had to. He’d try Immobulus or Expelliarmus first, but Lockhart didn’t need to know that. Let him waste time trying to counter something Harry wasn’t going to cast.

“Harry, now, really. Let’s come to some arrangement, shall we?” said Lockhart very warily, not dropping his wand but keeping it non-threateningly at his side. “Let bygones be bygones? Unless you’d _rather_ I explain to everyone how you’re the Heir of Slytherin, possibly possessed by You-Know-Who, who kidnapped students for a Dark ritual?” he said with a cunning smile.

Harry paused. He’d like to say no-one would believe that, but honestly, they probably would. Especially coming from the persuasive mouth of an honorary member of the Dark Forces Defence League.

“I believe a Legilimens like the Headmaster, or a draught of Veritaserum, would quickly uncover the truth,” he responded.

“And you would be happy for those measures to check the veracity of _your_ tale and uncover any other little secrets that might be ferreted out in the process?” Lockhart asked slyly.

No, Harry would _not_ like that at all.

“Alright, let’s come to some arrangement,” he said resignedly, to Lockhart’s evident relief. “For I’d rather not fight unless I have to, and as you may recall, I’m not actually that fond of being famous. So I believe we can settle this matter with you being hailed the hero, and me playing but a small role as your plucky brave assistant.”

“I… just get to be the hero? You will back me in that story, voluntarily? How very singular.”

“Sure. I don’t mind – you know I’m less interested in fame than you are,” said Harry diplomatically. He was almost totally uninterested in being famous, but Lockhart had never yet managed to comprehend that. The idea that Harry wasn’t especially interested in being famous _while at school_ was the most he’d been able to convince him of.

“So you can be the one who told me to get my snake to talk to the Basilisk and got it to stop attacking, and you called a house-elf to get rid of the book, and you, the dashing hero of the hour, then broke free, and untied me and everyone else. While I merely aided by translating things in Parseltongue.”

“No, no, no!” said Lockhart, sounding appalled.

 _What?_ Harry had been sure he’d bite at the promise of fame. Was he upset at the idea of stealing Harry’s fame? Or wanting it _all_ for himself, including returning with Harry’s tragically slain corpse? Or perhaps with Harry’s mentally addled shell of a body from too strong an Obliviate? He readied himself for another attack – he’d misjudged this situation. The man had written so many books about his adventures – possibly ending tragically for some of the _real_ heroes.

“I thought you’d be amenable to an arranged story…” he said cautiously. “I promise I won’t contradict it. A reward or two for myself as an apology for your attack on me, and my cooperation, is all I would ask.” Hinting at his own side of the arrangement might reassure Lockhart that he was serious about a deal, since Lockhart might have problems with the inherently unbelievable dislike of fame as Harry’s prime motivation. And given he’d left it out in retelling his tale to Lockhart, he couldn’t mention that he didn’t want to be publicly known as the Heir of Slytherin. Even unsubstantiated rumours had caused more than enough trouble.

“Oh I am, I am amenable, but that story is _appalling_. The truth clearly won’t do. We can’t say I was controlled by a teenager’s cursed diary and we were saved by a pet snake and a house-elf. Even if it really _was_ You-Know-Who’s diary, which seems unlikely – for why would his ghost be a teenager? Ghosts don’t even work like that – they look like they did when they died. We’d both be the laughingstock of the wizarding world,” grumbled Lockhart. “So let’s work on a more… dramatic version. Something that will sell better.”

“Oh!” he said, relieved. Harry hadn’t misjudged him at all – fame _was_ everything. He’d merely misjudged the man’s level of veracity in the retellings of his stolen adventures.

Harry wanted to revive the others, but Lockhart wanted to sort out their story first. In any case, since Lockhart thought the Reviving Spell was “Enervate”, not “Rennervate”, Harry didn’t want to risk his friend or the others to his Professor’s dubious skills. Lockhart sounded confident and wanted to try anyway. But when Harry reminded him there wasn’t an audience around, and if he took off someone’s head with a miscast spell they could die down here before they could get help, Lockhart admitted that his expertise with healing charms wasn’t _quite_ up to the usual high standard of his other spells. Harry cast Episkey on Neville, which should hopefully heal any minor head injury he’d sustained from his body being dropped to the floor by the possessed Lockhart. It was a good general purpose spell for speeding the healing rate, suitable for minor injuries. There was a bruise on Neville’s forehead that starting rapidly changing colour from red, to blue-green, to the dull brown of an old bruise, so he felt confident it had worked correctly. He checked the others over, and they all seemed in good health as far as he could tell. They worked together to carry all the students out of the circle, just in case.

Then they started brainstorming. Harry suggested that after Lockhart broke free of the spirit’s possession (due to immense strength of will and a desire to save the students), he transfigured the cursed book into a mouse with Snufflifors and squashed it. Lockhart thought that wasn’t very dramatic or heroic, though liked the first part. “It’s even true!”

Harry thought he broke free at the threat of his turquoise robe with the embroidered peacock feathers round the hem being burnt, and losing his good looks, but saw no reason to debate the matter. “Well, I yield to your greater experience in knowing what’s more dramatic.”

Lockhart suggested the book could be destroyed in puddle of Basilisk venom, in a thick cloud of poisonous green smoke. Harry thought that sounded very implausible. “What, it just drools on the floor? I don’t think so. Do you know any spells that make a strong acid, or a powerful blasting curse? Those are supposed to be good for destroying powerfully enchanted objects, Professor McGonagall taught me that.”

“Yes! That sounds marvellous!” Lockhart said happily.

“You do? Because I could get the diary back-”

“Well, I know _of_ such spells,” Lockhart conceded, interrupting quickly lest Harry bring the haunted diary back. “We really need to finish our planning and concentrate on getting these students some medical help, right now. We don’t want to risk that spirit getting free again. So, I used an acid spell to destroy the diary, in a poisonous cloud of green smoke!”

Harry sighed. “Sure. And with his last breath, the spirit summoned a Basilisk forth to attack. I cast Fumos to provide a smokescreen to protect the other students, if that’s alright.”

“And I battled the Basilisk! Targeting it with all my most powerful spells!”

“While blindfolded.”

“Come now, that’s a bit much,” said Lockhart dubiously.

“It kills with its gaze, and seeing it indirectly petrifies you.”

“Blindfolded it is!” Lockhart backflipped to agree with enthusiasm. “Using my poor cape to shield my eyes!”

Harry suggested fighting it with a combination of spells and a transfigured blade. “I think Basilisks might be resistant to spellfire, like dragons, judging by the scales the size of dinner plates. Green, by the way – I got to see its tail. And swords are cool. You could fight with wand in one hand and sword in the other.”

Lockhart liked that suggestion a lot. “And then since it was so ancient it crumbled to dust the moment it was slain!”

“Is that reasonable? For it to crumble to dust?” asked Harry doubtfully.

“Any _other_ slayers of thousand year old Basilisks are welcome to step forward with their contradictory evidence,” said Lockhart smugly, folding his arms across his chest.

“Fair enough,” said Harry, with a shrug. He had a good point there. “At least that way we don’t have to produce its body,” he added. “One more thing…”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to get to use Parseltongue in the story. You know, in a heroic way. So people know it’s not just a thing for evil wizards. How about you heard me hiss to distract the Basilisk at a critical moment so you could kill it? Oh, and I asked Storm got my wand to me so I could cast that Fumos earlier in the story. I had Storm in one pocket, and my wand in the other, so all he’d need to do is wiggle across to push my wand up to my fingers.”

“Alright,” Lockhart agreed amiably. “It’s a pity we don’t have a ruined diary to show,” he mused.

“Well, it’s fathoms underwater now. I had to choose something fast – he was about to possess you again. He was all smoky, and going up your nose and into your mouth.”

Lockhart shuddered. “A fate truly worse than death. At the end there, I could feel him possessing me, like I was a puppet and he was the puppet-master. I could hear what he said, but it was like I was in a dream, a soft comfortable one I didn’t want to wake from. But when he said I’d start to rot…”

“Uh, it’s okay?” said Harry. “I mean, you’re alright. He’s gone, you won.” He sucked at comforting. It seemed to help, though, for Professor Lockhart perked back up.

“Yes, I fought him off, most valiantly, and he’ll never threaten my wardrobe again!”

“That’s the spirit!” Harry said encouragingly. “And you can write a marvellous new book about your exciting adventure.”

Lockhart’s face fell again, to Harry’s disappointment. “All my notes were in that diary. Tom seemed so helpful! It was extremely useful having an enchanted book that would correct my grammar and write back little helpful suggestions about what to include next, and how to spice things up. I spent _hours_ writing in it every night.”

“You can write it better this time. With a Basilisk in it, and the Chamber of Secrets.”

“And what do _you_ want, apart from your role as a squire to my heroic deeds of valour, and a mention of Parseltongue?”

Harry’s mind was blank. He hadn’t actually thought of anything yet. “A favour to claim at a later date? Oh, and a percentage of the profits from your next book of course.”

“Five per cent then, like we agreed on earlier?”

“Things have changed – you attacked me. Fifty per cent.”

“Outrageous! You won’t be writing a word of it!” After a little haggling they settled on twenty per cent of all profits and royalties, and one appearance by Harry at a book signing for the provisionally titled “Battles with the Basilisk”, lasting no more than an hour. And Harry’s silence about Lockhart, of course. And no slandering of Harry’s good name. They shook hands on the deal.

“And if you know any ways to counter a Legilimens reading your mind, now would be a good time to share, because I only know to avoid eye contact and Dumbledore is a Legilimens. And maybe Professor Snape, too.”

“Really? Oh dear … You know, I think I’m suffering from a bad case of magical fatigue, and might need to be transferred to St. Mungo’s immediately.”

“They’ll know if you’re faking,” warned Harry. “It’s easy to diagnose, as I read that Healers see it a lot in children.”

“I rather don’t think I am, actually,” said Lockhart wryly. “I feel very… empty. That one spell almost made me faint. Press will be better there, in any case.”

Harry rolled his eyes, which Lockhart loftily ignored.

“One final addition I just thought of! Initially after being given the diary by Miss Weasley, I spent some time studying it, then _pretended_ to be possessed and under its control to get it to lead me to the monster. I only became _really_ possessed at the very end, for an hour or two.”

“Is that what happened?” Harry asked. Lockhart looked at Harry a bit oddly at that question.

“I mean, did Miss Weasley give you the diary?”

“Ah! Yes, she did. She said she’d been suffering some memory loss, and thought it might be cursed. Asked me to give it the Aurors you’d told her should come at any moment, if I couldn’t break the curse myself.”

“Did… did you set the Basilisk on Hermione?”

“Ahh, well I don’t really recall. It is quite possible I was possessed and made to do so. My humblest apologies for my inadvertent role in that matter.” He gave a swift and apologetic little bow to Harry, who nodded his grudging acceptance.

“Now as to life debts,” Lockhart said, dragging the topic away quickly from Harry’s petrified friend. “Those other students surely owe you their lives, and possibly they owe their debt jointly to myself also. For without my immense strength of will in breaking free of the possession, they would have been surely slain.”

“Yet it was due to your actions that they were in danger, which negates the debts owed to you. You can’t claim a life debt from someone you endangered in the first place,” Harry grumbled.

“There is that,” Lockhart grudgingly conceded, “Shall we agree we each saved the other’s life, and thus no debts are owed each way?”

“I am agreeable to that,” said Harry more politely, with a nod of his head. “You _did_ help an awful lot. Without you fighting off the spirit, we might all have been done for. It was very genuinely heroic.”

“Yes, yes it was,” said Lockhart, wonderingly to himself. “A rather terrifying experience, on the whole, being a hero.”

“Of course, without _Ssstorm_ _here_ to argue with the Basilisk, it might still have killed us all. Can snakes be owed life debts?” Harry said, glancing at his pet.

“It is not a topic that comes up very often in society. I don’t believe so.”

“ _Did I hear my name?_ ” the little snake asked.

“ _We were discussing how cunning you were arguing with the Basilisk to sssave everyone._ ”

“ _To sssave **you**._ ”

“ _Do you feel you’re owed a ssspecial debt or favour for that?_ ”

“ _Sssome nice little fish to eat? And more fresh leavess for my home?_ ”

“ _Certainly._ ” Storm hissed happily and went back to resting quietly.

“What did it say?” Lockhart asked curiously.

“It’s happy with a reward of a fish to eat, and some fresh leaves for its tank.”

Lockhart sighed. “If only everyone was so agreeable.” Harry shrugged. He felt Lockhart owed him something – he and his snake had saved the day, but Lockhart would seize _all_ the credit and all the profits from writing about it if given the chance. He wouldn’t be turning his back on the man any time soon.

After a quick chat about how to get everyone out, Harry and Lockhart used the Levitation Charm on the unconscious students, or more precisely on their clothes, as the spell didn’t affect living things. Harry took Neville, and Ginny Weasley, while the fatigued Lockhart took Miss Tolipan. Professor Lockhart had only a vague sense of what direction to go in, so Harry got Storm to help scout the way. However the Basilisk got out, that’s where they’d go too – hopefully it would lead them out to that secret tunnel in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.

They had a little difficulty leaving at first, as the carved stone snakes on the doors out of the main chamber animated and moved to stare at them as they approached. Lockhart let out a high pitched cry of fear as they started hissing, and closed his eyes (just in case).

“ _Who goess there?_ ” the two snake statues said in eerie unison.

“ _Harold Jamess Potter, the Heir of Ssslytherin, and companionss. I am a friend of Custoss, and a ssstudent of Hogwartss,_ ” hissed Harry, hedging his bets as much as possible. If he suddenly had to fight, he’d have to drop the students floating in front of him to fight, and that would be dangerous for them.

“ _Passss,_ ” the snakes said, and slithered out of their places barricading the door, which opened of its own accord after that.

“ _You can-_ You can open your eyes,” said Harry to Lockhart, switching out of Parseltongue once he realised he was still speaking it. “The statues are going to let us pass. It was some kind of challenge, but all seems well after speaking to them.”

The next challenge they encountered also had Lockhart closing his eyes again. He was clearly nervous about the Basilisk still being alive somewhere. But it was just a giant pale shed snakeskin. Lockhart, once reassured it wasn’t a live Basilisk, took a large sample as “proof” they’d seen and battled a Basilisk.

Storm led them away from the more civilised paved area, and down a dank cave-like tunnel, with only some parts with manufactured stone walls or pillars.

“ _Up there,_ ” he said, starting to slither up a slide-like tunnel.

“ _It might sssuit you, but I don’t think we can climb that, Ssstorm. We really need ssstairss,_ ” Harry said, but as he did so the tunnel reshaped itself to a spiralling stone staircase. Convenient!

“Is there danger?” asked Lockhart nervously. Harry glanced back. He’d closed his eyes again, probably because he’d heard them hissing. He really was tense! At least he hadn’t dropped Miss Tolipan this time, like he had when he saw the snakeskin. Thankfully she hadn’t fallen far, and seemed uninjured. Lockhart had switched to carrying her in his arms.

“It’s fine, I just made some stairs. I guess I said the right thing. Lots of things here seem to respond well to Parseltongue. I guess it really is Salazar Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets. I’m not sure it would be wise to venture down here on your own.”

“No fear of that,” muttered Lockhart.

They reached the bathroom above them without incident, and Lockhart sighed with relief as Harry closed the secret tunnel behind them.

“Come on,” said Harry in a gentle and encouraging tone, like he would with Dudley when he was faced with his summer Maths homework. “The hardest part is all done now. Now you can take the lead – the glorious triumphant hero who’s rescued four children and defeated a Basilisk.”

Lockhart’s back straightened, and he threw his shoulders back and puffed out his chest. “Let’s get you all straight to the hospital wing. It’s been a trying experience for you.”

“Yes, very trying,” Harry said meekly, keeping a straight face as best he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom Marvolo Riddle, beta extraordinaire for Lockhart’s new planned bestseller, “Horror at Hogwarts”! *lol* Poor Lockhart, all that creative writing totally wasted.
> 
> Guest – Good guess that the Obliviate might bounce off the shield, but just going with canonical memory loss felt a bit dull. I wanted to shake things up a bit more. :)


	24. Changes Noticed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lockhart reassures all his deeply worried fans that all is well, for he is in fact safe. Oh, and so are some kids.

**_April, 1993_ **

“Oh, you’re all still alive,” said the silvery ghost of Myrtle drifting through a toilet door. She sounded rather disappointed.

“Yes, thank you Miss Warren, we are quite well I’m pleased to say,” responded Harry with more courtesy than he thought such a comment really deserved.

“Rather battered from our dreadful fight with a _Basilisk_ , but triumphant!” said Lockhart grandly.

“People are looking for you _everywhere_ , even the ghosts are looking! I don’t remember seeing you go down that tunnel, though.”

“Ah,” said Lockhart, shifting uncomfortably, “well never mind, you’ve found us now, haven’t you! Well, we must away, for these students need the tender care of Madam Pomfrey.”

The ghost shyly waved them goodbye as they left, and floated off through a wall, perhaps to spread the news of their return.

The hallways seemed especially deserted as they headed straight for the hospital wing.

“Is it night, do you think? It’s so quiet,” remarked Harry.

“Afternoon I believe. Perhaps the school has been evacuated?”

“No,” Harry said thoughtfully, “Dumbledore’s probably just sent students to their dorms, like the last time a monster threatened to kill us,” said Harry.

Lockhart nodded cheerfully to a knight in a painting as they passed. “We’re off to the hospital wing!” he informed him.

“That doth be glad tidings indeed, sirrah. I shall spread word of thy destination!” said the knight and galloped off on his horse out of the frame.

Harry felt rather proud of his heroics in the Chamber of Secrets, and felt it was a shame he couldn’t tell anyone the truth. Though he thought he’d tell Neville. Especially given Lockhart’s predilection for Obliviate spells, having an extra person in the know would be good, just in case. And he thought Neville wouldn’t turn on him, even though it seemed Harry now really _was_ the Heir of Slytherin. He wondered if he should tell anyone else, like Pansy, or Hermione (when he could). Or even a teacher, like Professor Flitwick. If only Professor Quirrell was still writing to him – he sadly hoped he was still alive. He knew he’d be impressed for sure. To think – he’d defeated the spirit of Voldemort! Should he get someone to help with the destruction of the diary? He pondered the matter as they walked, and floated unconscious bodies ahead of him, and decided that he’d talk it over with Neville first and do some research before deciding whom else he should trust. If he handed over the diary to Dumbledore, and the old (and reputedly powerful) wizard got possessed because he faffed around and didn’t do anything except write in it, that would be a disaster! He didn’t have a good track record of dealing with dangers in the school, in Harry’s opinion. Before he was Obliviated, Dobby had given him some good directions on how to find the diary in the forest - he felt confident he could locate it when he was ready.

When they got to the Hospital Wing a number of people awaited them there, and a couple more even came tumbling out of the Floo shortly after they arrived. Everyone was shouting out questions and exclamations and generally getting in the way of Madam Pomfrey’s attempts to treat the injured. Harry recognised Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, the tiny Professor Flitwick, Neville’s Gran, and the distraught Mrs. Weasley. There were some adults he didn’t know, but he guessed the red-headed man with his arm around Mrs. Weasley was probably Ron and Miss Weasley’s father. He didn’t recognise the upset-looking blonde woman in a plain blue robe, or the calm and elegantly robed man with the long white hair and a decorative walking cane.

When two students’ bodies floated into the infirmary ahead of Professor Lockhart, Miss Tolipan, and Harry, there were shrieks of panic or relief (it was hard to tell which), and everyone yelled out questions at once. The blonde woman rushed over to Miss Tolipan and grabbed her out of the Lockhart’s tired arms, and the Weasleys similarly converged on Ginny. Neville’s Gran was shouting at Madam Pomfrey that her grandson should be tended to _first_ , as the Longbottom Heir, and the teachers were all asking what happened, while Lockhart yelled over the top of everyone.

“It’s alright, I’m quite alright, there’s no need to worry so. Nothing a week or two in hospital won’t cure. And the students are all very much alive, thanks to me!” he boasted.

Mrs. Weasley sobbed out her almost incoherent gratitude, and hugged a startled but pleased Professor Lockhart, and then she let him go to round angrily on Dumbledore and start yelling at him for unfairly accusing the gallant Lockhart of running away. The man with platinum blonde hair smiled quietly at the scene. Dumbledore was trying to reassure everyone that clearly the threat was over and everyone was safe.

“ _Silencio! Silencio!_ Don’t make me start stunning people!” yelled the angry Madam Pomfrey, silencing Mrs. Weasley and Neville’s Gran, and angering them greatly in the process judging by the expressions on their faces. “You _will_ all move aside so these students can be put on beds and be ministered to! And you will all remain quiet while I do so! _Now move!_ ”

Mrs. Tolipan obediently put her daughter on the nearest empty bed, as did Mr. Weasley. Harry floated Neville over the next one, and hopped himself onto the fourth. He did feel rather tired after a lot of spellcasting, and had a few grazes and rope burns that might need seeing to. It was also simply a good spot to be out of the way, and not bother anyone. It was a bit scary being in the middle of such a large angry crowd of people, though he thought they’d likely calm down soon when they realised their children were alright.

“Perhaps-” Dumbledore started with a twinkling eye, and was glared at by Madam Pomfrey, “-Professor Lockhart could tell us what happened. It may assist in seeing to the children’s recovery.” He finished his sentence gamely, despite her evil eye.

“Ah, well I believe they are simply unconscious, perhaps a few bumps and bruises but nothing too serious,” said Lockhart. “I thought it best to surrender them into your care, Madam Pomfrey, purely as a precautionary measure of course.”

“I see you remember our little talk about _whom_ exactly on the staff is the Hogwarts mediwitch,” said Madam Pomfrey, waving her wand over Miss Tolipan, who woke up with a startled cry.

“My baby girl!” sobbed her mother. “You’re alright!” She hugged her teenage daughter tightly.

“He attacked me! Professor Lockhart stunned me!” the girl screeched, pointing accusingly at him. Her mother fumbled in her robes and drew her wand, then spun to face Lockhart angrily. Mr. Weasley quickly cast a _Finite_ on his wife and Mrs. Longbottom, before turning to face him too.

“Ah, well there’s a very good explanation for that. You see I wasn’t myself… I was _possessed_ ,” said Lockhart dramatically. “I am free now of course. Harry can vouch for me.”

“Is this true, my boy?” Dumbledore asked.

“Absolutely. He broke free, but it took some time. He showed really tremendous strength of will, I think! He was amazing,” Harry said, sincerely and honestly, looking deep into Dumbledore’s twinkling deep eyes, thinking about the cloud of black smoke pouring out of Lockhart’s mouth as he fought back against the possessing spirit from Tom’s diary. Then he glanced away (before his mind drifted), looking with concern at Neville as Madam Pomfrey moved quietly over to him. His Gran had moved to stand by his bed, but had also drawn her wand on Lockhart, and wasn’t paying much attention.

“Madam Pomfrey? In case you need to know, I cast an Episkey on Neville, as he had a head injury. It didn’t look too bad, but I was worried, and…”

“Is he alright?” interrupted Mrs. Longbottom, talking to the mediwitch.

“Shh,” she said shortly, casting more diagnostic spells before responding further. “Yes, he’ll be quite alright with a bit of rest. Somewhat magically fatigued as was Miss Tolipan, but otherwise well. And your spell seems well cast, Mr. Potter,” she said approvingly.

Under Madam Pomfrey’s practised wordless Rennervate, Neville woke up with a surprised look on his face. “Gran? What are you doing here?”

“Well, it seems clear the children are all going to be fine,” said Lockhart boisterously. “So if you would like to repair with me to another room, I’d be happy to regale those interested with the tale of my _Battles with a Basilisk_!” He shook his head to make his hair flip dramatically, and smiled charmingly at the room full of people.

“We knew it!” said Neville triumphantly. “We guessed it was a Basilisk. Is that why you attacked us?” Neville asked. “He got you too, Harry? Why isn’t he under arrest?!”

“He was possessed,” Harry said with a shrug. “An enchanted book.”

Ginny, who’d been awoken last, let out a little tired sob at hearing that. “It was all my f-fault!”

“Perhaps we should withdraw,” said the white-haired man smoothly to the teachers. “The children need time to calm their spirits before they could be questioned.”

“I hate to say it, but I agree with Mr. Malfoy,” said Mr. Weasley. “Molly dear, will you stay with Ginny?” His wife barely heard him, she was so busy cuddling and cooing to her daughter.

All the teachers, the headmaster, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy, and Mrs. Longbottom went off to another room to hear Lockhart’s tale, while the two mothers stayed to fuss over their daughters. Neville gazed a little sadly after his Gran as she left the room.

“Hey,” Harry said to him. “We were right.” Neville smiled gamely at him, distracted. “It was a Basilisk, but it’s dealt with now. No-one else is going to be petrified, and certainly not killed.” Neville looked a bit cheered up, to Harry’s relief.

“Lie down, Mr. Potter, so I can check you over now,” said Madam Pomfrey. He got a few scrapes mended, a nasty tasting potion to prevent “suppuration of your wounds” as a precautionary measure, and instructions to take it easy with spellcasting for a day. She reassured him that he should be fine to leave at dinner time in a few hours. The adults meanwhile were offered calming potions, but only Mrs. Tolipan accepted.

Harry kind of wished he got to hear Lockhart’s version of the adventure, but they had planned out their tale well enough that he thought the bare bones would suffice to please those still present in the hospital wing. So he talked about the diary, and Ginny interrupted to sob that she’d found in her things at the start of the year, and told them about the possessing spirit Tom Riddle. Harry mentioned that Tom had _claimed_ to be the Dark Lord, which made Madam Pomfrey _insist_ Mrs. Weasley take a calming potion or have to leave the room. She was very upset at the idea of You-Know-Who possibly possessing her daughter. Ginny took her potion meekly, and eventually her mother did too.

Harry talked about waking up tied up in a ritual circle, with the possessed Lockhart threatening them all, until he broke free of the spirit’s control. “Then he destroyed the diary with some kind of acid spell, and the spirit with its last breath called forth the Basilisk to kill us all.”

Everyone was riveted, though Harry felt very awkward at the attention.

“I knew it might be a Basilisk, Neville and I had been investigating. That’s why the possessed Lockhart attacked us – the spirit thought we knew too much. Then I remembered Storm was there in my pocket, and asked him to fetch my wand for me-”

“Who is Storm?” asked Mrs. Tolipan.

“Oh, my pet snake. He’s a Wonambi, a Rainbow Serpent,” Harry said, fishing him out of his pocket to show her. His scales glimmered with beautiful streaks of rainbows in the hospital wing’s bright lights.

“ _Hello again Harold. I would like to keep napping unlessss you have my fish ready_ ,” it said, but Harry ignored him for the moment as Mrs. Tolipan was still speaking. He put the snake on the bedcovers where it wiggled back to him and burrowed into his sleeve to snuggle against his warm arm.

“He’s beautiful! How is that allowed as a pet, though? Is it poisonous?”

“He’s not venomous, and in any case it’s safe because I’m a Parselmouth,” Harry said, and she gasped. “But it’s a good thing, you know, because Storm got my wand to me, and I could then cast Fumos to make a smokescreen in a ring around myself and the other students. That way, while Professor Lockhart was busy fighting the Basilisk with spells and a transfigured sword, none of _us_ would be at risk of being killed by the Basilisk gazing at us.”

“Oh!” she said, sounding thoughtful.

“He saved us all,” said Ginny, smiling at Harry. Her mother beamed at him too. He glanced away uncomfortably.

“Lockhart’s the real hero of the hour,” he demurred. “If he hadn’t broken free of the spirit in the first place, we all would have been done for. That took real willpower.”

Ginny’s face crumpled slowly. “I c-couldn’t break free,” she said sadly. “Sometimes, I’d wake up, and there w-would be red paint on my hands, or blood and chicken feathers everywhere. I didn’t know what was going on! I thought I might be going m-mad.” Her mother clucked over her soothingly, telling her it wasn’t her fault.

“Uh, sorry, I uh, I didn’t mean,” stuttered Harry. Ginny’s mother murmured reassurances to her daughter about how of course a seasoned fighter of Dark creatures would be unusually resistant to such things, and how Ginny shouldn’t blame herself.

“Mr. Potter if you continue upsetting the other patients be warned I shall Silencio you too if the need arises!” warned Madam Pomfrey sternly.

“No, please don’t,” said the young Miss Tolipan, “I want to know what happened. Please, what happened next?”

Harry glanced warily at Madam Pomfrey, who gave him a short nod. “Well, I hissed in Parseltongue to distract the Basilisk, Lockhart killed it, and it crumbled to dust. Everyone was untied, and the Professor and I got everyone out of the magic circle. Uh, he didn’t want to wake people in case it went wrong.”

“How was it _you_ were awake in the first place?” asked her mother.

“Oh, the spirit wanted to question me about how it was that I’d defeated the Dark Lord when I was a baby. He wasn’t very happy that I had no idea. I told him it was probably a charm my mum cast, but he wasn’t very satisfied with that answer.”

“The Tolipan family is in your debt then, yours and Lockhart’s. And please thank your snake for me.”

Miss Tolipan looked at her mother in surprise. “Thank his _snake_?”

“Certainly. It sounded very instrumental in helping keep you safe. Let it not be said I was ungracious to such a helpful creature.”

Harry hissed to his snake, but it seemed to have fallen asleep. “He’s asleep, I’ll tell him later if it’s alright? He’s nocturnal, like most owls, so for him it’s like trying to have a conversation in the middle of the night after you’ve already been up for hours. And he’s just a baby snake, really.”

The Headmaster, Mr. Malfoy, and Mrs. Longbottom eventually returned to the room to hear the student’s accounts of the matter, and Lockhart interjected explanations and boasts whenever he seemed to feel it was required, which was quite often. Dumbledore let Mrs. Weasley know that her husband had gone to spread the good news to their other children. Harry asked after where Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick had gone (as they hadn’t returned to the Hospital Wing), which seemed to please Dumbledore.

“Ah, they both mentioned their appreciation of your bravery and spellcasting panache, but alas bear responsibilities to their Houses and needed to rejoin them and let them know the danger was over, and the missing students found safe. Your friends in Gryffindor will no doubt be delighted to know you are well.” Well, Neville already knew, and Hermione was insensible to the danger, but Harry thought that Percy and the twins would probably be happy, if mostly because of their sister. He wondered how Ron would take the news. And the Slytherins! Would they be angry to hear of the alleged death of the Basilisk, or impressed?

Lockhart after a while sat down on one of the beds, plaintively complaining of magical fatigue of his own. “Though you can’t imagine how bravely I bear it, I fear fighting off possession and casting a large number of powerful and rare spells has taken a lot out of me,” he explained to Madam Pomfrey.

She checked him over, and in a rather shocked voice pronounced it one of the worst cases of magical exhaustion she’d ever seen, which seemed to cheer him up immensely.

“Well, I did think so, for such occurrences are sadly common when you fight against the Dark forces with every breath left in your body, but you _are_ the expert,” he said, momentarily gracious in victory. “I trust you’ll see I do have some _small_ skill at medicine.”

“Perhaps a _little_. Well, bed rest for you for at least the next two weeks,” she pronounced. But Lockhart swiftly charmed her into letting him make a speech at dinner before he left for St. Mungo’s, and his own personal favourite Healer’s care.

“Despite labouring under _immense_ fatigue, I simply must reassure the student body that I am well, and that the monster behind the attacks on students has been dealt with.” He departed after that to go and clean up and put on some new robes before dinner.

“I think perhaps those petrified students should be transferred with Professor Lockhart,” said Mr. Malfoy in a drawl, gesturing to where they lay, sequestered out of sight behind some curtains on the other side of the ward. “For you did agree in the end, I believe, that it would be a more convenient locale for their families to visit than Hogwarts. Did you not?” he said to Dumbledore.

“Well, as I _remain_ Headmaster here,” Dumbledore said, with a fleeting glance at Harry (who shrank back into his pillow) and a tight smile at Mr. Malfoy, “I believe such decisions rest yet in my hands. And there remains the issue of cost for the families, whose supply of Galleons is unfortunately extremely low due to their background.”

“I could help,” interjected Harry bravely. “I could help pay for them.”

Mr. Malfoy glanced at him assessingly. “A kind thought,” he said smoothly.

“Well _I_ wasn’t possessed at any point,” Harry said, with a careful look to Mr. Malfoy, “or petrified. But certainly we were all at risk, any of us here at school might have been petrified by the Basilisk, or even killed! I really feel for them, you know?” Harry didn’t know about that man. Or what he was up to. At least maybe he could hint that he _wasn’t_ the Dark Lord. If the book had been his, was Mr. Malfoy behind everything like Dobby had perhaps been trying to hint? Or was he trying to salvage things? If he’d been mind-controlled by the Dark Lord in the last war, maybe he was desperate to prevent his return. Giving an evil diary to Miss Weasley didn’t sound like the best way to promote _any_ agenda. _Plots are confusing_ , Harry concluded unhappily. Maybe he could get Draco to ferret out what his dad was up to, and tell him. It might be worth a try.

“Most generous, however, the cost of long-term care can be quite ruinous,” warned Madam Longbottom, from her seat next to Neville’s bedside.

“It wouldn’t be long if they have the Mandrake Restorative Draught on hand, or could import it,” Harry rebutted.

“Should they require long-term care until Hogwarts can provide a cure, then the Malfoy family shall contribute to the upkeep of these young wizards and witch at St. Mungo’s, in concert with the Potter family,” Mr. Malfoy said with an arrogant air. Everyone stared at him. “My wife _does_ oversee _regular_ charitable donations from the Malfoy family to St. Mungo’s, I would remind you. This would be little different,” he finished stiffly.

“The Potter family would welcome your assistance,” Harry said formally, but glancing swiftly at Dumbledore, who was frowning, he decided to forgo the usual bow. He still didn’t know what the man was playing at, but he wouldn’t say no to some financial aid. It would be a while until Lockhart’s money started coming in.

“The Tolipan family would also like to contribute a little, if required,” said Mrs. Tolipan hesitantly to Mr. Malfoy.

“The Longbottom family is unable to contribute financially at this point in time,” Mrs. Longbottom said stiffly, with an unhappy glare at Mr. Malfoy. “But I wish you the best in your efforts, Mr. Potter, and would be happy to recommend some excellent Healers for their care. With no offence to Madam Pomfrey, of course. There is little one can do for someone who is petrified, but it can be a comfort for families to be able to visit, and being transferred to St. Mungo’s would supply that opportunity.”

“We are also a little short on Galleons at the moment,” said Mr. Weasley. “Sorry Harry.”

“That’s alright,” he said politely. “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“Well Hogwarts will provide the Restorative Draughts in due course, naturally,” said Dumbledore. “Should St. Mungo’s be unable to do so, which I suspect will be the case. I don’t really approve but since the families will not be forced to bear the brunt of an expense that might beggar them, and the Board is so insistent, I suppose we shall have to move them. Well, Harry, perhaps we could hear your version of what happened down in the Chamber of Secrets, now.”

“I’ve already told people here-” Harry said plaintively, “and I’m a little tired. I’m sure there’s not much to tell that Lockhart didn’t mention already. Could Mrs. Weasley or Mrs. Tolipan perhaps let you know? And we could all have a bit of a rest?”

“That would be nice, I think,” agreed Neville.

“If you could oversee the arrangements for the transfer of Hermione and the students I would really appreciate it, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry said with his best charming smile to Mr. Malfoy, which he seemed to find startling for some reason – the man’s eyes widened. Harry let the smile fade into a more tired look. What did he do wrong? His charming smile usually worked well for Harry (if not as well as Lockhart’s served him). A wiggle in his sleeve alerted him to a possible cause – Storm had woken up with all the chatter, and had poked his head out Harry’s sleeve to look around.

“Ahh, your useful little serpent, how delightful,” said Mr. Malfoy, with a fascinated glance at Harry and his pet.

“I am very grateful to the Parkinson family for their gift,” Harry said, dutifully name dropping (even though the Malfoys at least already knew about it). He thought he’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t mention her somewhere along the line in this whole mess.

“I didn’t know you were still friends with Miss Parkinson,” said Dumbledore with a frown.

“A little bit,” he conceded. “And why _would_ you know? Surely you don’t keep track of _all_ the students’ friendships?” said Harry with an air of surprised curiosity (accidentally overdone) that made Mr. Malfoy smirk.

“Well, let’s leave the children to rest,” Mr. Malfoy said helpfully, and was swiftly backed up by Madam Pomfrey.

“They’ll want to see their friends soon enough, so that’s enough visitors for now I think.” She shooed everyone out, even the protesting Headmaster, who eventually conceded he actually needed to go and see to “poor Hagrid’s welfare”. Harry wondered what that was all about, but concluded it was probably nothing he needed to worry about.

When everyone had gone, Neville asked Harry, “Is that how it all really happened? Lockhart saved the day?”

Harry hesitated. “Pretty much, yes. Why, he’s as good at Defence and battling evil creatures as I am bad at Potions!” he said, with a little faked laugh. There were portraits in the Hospital Wing, not to mention other listening students. Well, there was Miss Tolipan. Miss Weasley seemed to be looking very drowsy and wasn’t paying attention.

Neville looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded, looking at the other girls in the room. _Message received_ , Harry thought happily. Lockhart was a fake, and he’d explain later.

“I’m sorry,” said Miss Tolipan. “I was one of the ones who misjudged you. I thought just because you spoke Parseltongue that you would be… well, I was wrong. And I’m not too proud to say so. So, I’m sorry. And thank you so much for helping to save me. And, please, call me Alice. Because I’d be so proud to count you as one of my friends. Or at least, not… please don’t be angry.”

Ginny didn’t say anything – she seemed to have fallen fast asleep under the influence of one too many Calming Draughts. Or possibly Madam Pomfrey had slipped her a Sleeping Draught.

“You’re not the only one who doubted me – I understand,” said Harry politely. “I’m only on a first name basis with my close friends, Miss Tolipan, but I hope if we grow better acquainted I shall you count you among them in time.”

She smiled happily at that to his relief – you never knew for sure how girls would react to things. She chattered to him a little about herself in introduction; she was a half-blood from Wales with a Muggle father who was a musician, and a mother who worked part-time for the Wizarding Wireless Network, and she was a fourth year Ravenclaw.

“I would be happy to tutor you in Muggle Studies or Arithmancy if you’re taking either of those subjects as electives; I’m one of the top students in those subjects, I get straight O’s,” she said proudly.

She was disappointed to hear he wasn’t going to be taking either, and instead volunteered her services in tutoring him in Transfiguration, which was her best core subject. He declined as politely as he could, saying that he had regular study plans, but would really appreciate it if he could seek her out for assistance as needed if he got stuck on something in that or another core subject.

After about an hour of quiet chatter, including listening to Alice singing Lockhart’s praises, and Neville commenting that Alice was his mother’s name, Madam Pomfrey admitted some student visitors. There was an influx of Weasley children to see Ginny (including Ron), and at the front of the pack to see Harry were all of his Slytherin friends (including Draco and Goyle). An assortment of Gryffindors stopped by both Neville and Harry’s beds, including Dean, Seamus, and Eloise Midgen. From Ravenclaw there was a crowd of fourth years to visit Alice, and Stephen Cornfoot had stopped by to see Harry (and to hear the story of what had happened). Ernie and Hannah from Hufflepuff also came by with a pack of ice mice for everyone to share and a hasty card signed by many Hufflepuffs, sending their best wishes to Harry. A pale-haired blonde first year Ravenclaw came by to visit Ginny, patting her unconscious hand and saying that she was glad all the Wrackspurts had left her now. Some of the older Ravenclaws giggled at that, and Harry heard them call her “Looney”, but she ignored them and continued stroking Ginny’s hand gently, watched bemusedly but tolerantly by the Weasleys. There was a Gryffindor girl to visit Ginny too, but when she discovered she was sound asleep she instead spent most of her visit staring at Harry, who was happy to have an excellent excuse to ignore her given the crowd of other visitors around him and Neville.

His tale was retold while students and some watchful portraits listened avidly, and his sleepy snake admired by all. Harry told them that Lockhart had a piece of shed Basilisk skin that he would display at dinner with a fuller version of the tale. 

“You’re not upset, I hope, that the Basilisk had to be dealt with?” he asked the Slytherins cautiously. “She was Slytherin’s Basilisk, after all.”

“Did you _really_ find the Chamber of Secrets? It wasn’t just some abandoned underground classroom?” asked Pansy. There was a hush as everyone hung on his reply.

“Yes,” he said decidedly. “There were enchanted snake carvings and statues everywhere, and they were ready to attack anyone who didn’t know Parseltongue, which Lockhart could do while he was possessed, by the way. Oh, and there was a giant statue of Slytherin.”

There was an awed murmur from the Slytherins. “What did he look like?” asked Draco.

“Uh, kind of thin and old, with a really, really long beard. And robes.”

The girls sighed in disappointment. “Boys,” muttered Daphne, and the rest of the girls nodded in agreement.

Harry felt the sting of their disappointment, and tried to give some more detail of the Chamber for his audience. “There were pillars everywhere, with stone snakes on them, and they’d turn to watch you sometimes. The carved snakes on the doors were vipers, I saw their fangs. Some of them had carved stripes – I think they were Ashwinders. There were some cobras, too. And they’d animate if you came near and demand to know who you were. In Parseltongue of course. Some acted like um… their bodies were bars across the door, so you couldn’t open the door unless they moved for you. Well, or if you destroyed them. But I’ve heard it’s tough to take out stone statues, and they looked ready to bite if you said the wrong thing.”

“You paid attention to the snakes’ stripes, but all you can say about Slytherin is that he had ‘robes’ on, and a beard?” whined Pansy.

Harry shrugged apologetically. “Ask Lockhart. I’m sure he paid attention to the robes. They were long and old fashioned, with a belt, and his beard went all the way to the ground. That’s all I noticed, sorry. I was a bit busy worrying about everyone! And the giant snake and the scary ghost!”

“Father says there’s no chance of ousting the Headmaster now,” said Draco quietly, when he got a momentary chance without non-Slytherins listening in. “But at least it’s damaged his reputation. And half of our agenda did get through, so that will gain him some useful political capital with the Board of Directors.”

“So he’s happy with how things turned out?” Harry asked casually. Well, a good imitation of casually.

“I’m sure he would rather have seen Dumber-more dismissed – I know he thinks that man holds too much power. But apart from that he seems satisfied. I know he’s happy you’re going to be working together on the finances for St. Mungo’s,” Draco said. “And Snape asked a lot of questions about where you might have gone when you went missing, but I told him _nothing_ ,” he whispered proudly.

“I told him about the petition, and how upset Harry was about Hermione being petrified,” said Daphne smugly. “That way he felt he’d learned something, and I got five points for Slytherin.” Draco scowled at her.

“I guess Neville was the only person who knew where I was, and Lockhart attacked him too, since he was possessed. So there wasn’t really anything useful _anyone_ could have said to help us,” said Harry.

In the end, all the patients were warned to avoid unnecessary spellcasting, but given leave to depart the hospital wing after a final check-up, except for Ginny. Harry had hopes of heading back to his dorm for a quick wash before dinner, as Scourgify just didn’t feel the same and he felt kind of grubby after rolling about on the floor and exploring tunnels. But his time was well monopolised by the Gryffindors accompanying him and Neville back to the dorm, with Seamus and Dean wanting to hear more details from him and Neville, Percy gravely shaking his hand in thanks “for the service you have rendered our family”, and the twins hooting with joy. Ron hovered, like he wanted to talk to him, but didn’t know where to start, or he was worried about people listening in or something. Both Harry and Neville got a massive cheer from a big crowd of Gryffindors when they arrived in the dorm, who slapped their backs and congratulated them on their adventure with Lockhart. Harry and Neville had to skip the clean-up and went down to the Great Hall for dinner – only the promise of hearing Lockhart’s heroic tale got everyone moving.

Lockhart’s speech went much as Harry had expected. It was captivating, thrilling, and bore little resemblance to the truth. Harry noticed that the spirit in the diary was described as the “ghostly enchantment of a foolish young Dark wizard named Tom Riddle”, which got some interested murmurs at many tables, and a knowing smile from Dumbledore. Ravenclaw got a smattering of points for Miss Tolipan, and the cheering house of Gryffindor got masses of points for Harry and Neville, and a few for Ginny too. There were a few scowls (but mostly polite applause) for their House, as a result. At least the other Houses would have a couple of months to try and catch up before the end of year feast, though it seemed not everyone wanted to wait. After the applause was done, Harry noticed Professor Snape saying something while glaring at the points counters, then smirking as Gryffindor’s counter dropped down a bit. Lockhart also announced his retirement from the role of DADA teacher, given the necessity to now repair to St. Mungo’s to recover from “unprecedented levels of magical fatigue”. There was a mix of groans and applause (possibly polite, possibly relieved) at his news, and he promised that should his Healer allow, he’d be back in June to oversee final exams, which a few of the more giggly Gryffindor girls were at least pleased to hear (though they seemed to be in a minority in holding that opinion). He exited the Main Hall to a round of applause and excited chatter amongst the students about his tale.

Harry hoped that his rather minor role in the story would lead people to be both less afraid of him being a Parselmouth, and less likely to think he was the Heir of Slytherin. It seemed to be working, but it certainly wasn’t leading to less attention. But perhaps that would pass with time. Storm didn’t mind it – he got a lovely selection of new leaves and some pond weed from Neville as a thank-you, bonus fish from Harry (courtesy of the house-elves), and lots of admiration from many students.

Harry really hoped he’d done the right thing. This was twice he’d helped cover for a shady Defence teacher; he didn’t want to make a habit of it. He wondered briefly if he should have risked the slander Lockhart would’ve tried. But no, no-one would have believed him over the heroic Lockhart. How could such a friendly teacher turn on him like that? Rotten blackmailer. Harry’s deal was far more than he deserved.

It took a couple of days and a couple of failed attempts, but Ron finally got a chance to talk to Harry in relative privacy, with only Neville around as they headed to class. Hermione had been transferred with the other petrified students to St. Mungo’s, and Harry had high hopes she’d rejoin them both at Hogwarts soon. Classes just weren’t the same without her, and she would panic if she woke to realise she’d classes in the lead up to exams. He was caching copies of class notes for her, just like they had after Christmas.

Ron looked very nervous, but finally ready to talk. “Harry, I wanted to say that uh, I shouldn’t have-” Ron started, before stumbling to a halt.

Harry waited politely.

“-I shouldn’t have thought you were attacking people,” Ron finished in a rush. “Sorry about that. I was wrong. And thanks heaps for helping save Ginny. She’s been going on about it a lot, and it seems like it was kind of… her… being the Heir of Slytherin. Not that she meant to! That spirit, Tom,” he babbled, “he was controlling her.”

“So Harry, friends again?” he said, with an optimistic smile.

 


	25. The Chamber of Secrets, Plural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry chats with Neville about what *really* happened in the Chamber of Secrets, Snape and Harry have a less-than-completely-pleasant discussion with interesting results, and Harry's Slytherin friends point out that they're not idiots.

**_May 1993_ **

“Your apology is accepted, Weasley,” said Harry, with a polite inclination of his head. “Many people were similarly mistaken.” He started walking again, and Neville trailed after him with a sigh.

“He’s _trying_ , Harry,” he said quietly.

“Hey! ‘Weasley’?! I’m _apologising_ here!” said Ron.

Harry stopped walking and turned around, with a twisted smile on his face. “Yes, I noticed. And I do honestly appreciate it. I would be most pleased to return to a less… antagonistic relationship. But it doesn’t make us _friends_ again, Weasley. Other people, I get that. I get that people thought I might be evil, and willing to petrify even one of my best friends. But you, you were my friend. You knew me. You should’ve known better than to fall for gossip, and you shouldn’t have turned on me like that. I’ll forgive, but I’m not going to just forget that.”

Harry knew he had plenty of _other_ friends, real friends who hadn’t deserted him when the going got tough. _A friend like that, I can do without_ , he concluded. _Just like Quirrell said_.

***

Harry’s chat with Neville about what _really_ happened in the Chamber of Secrets was done outside, away from prying portraits and eavesdropping students. Neville was fascinated to hear the real version, and rather terrified at the thought that You-Know-Who’s ghost might be haunting an as-yet undestroyed enchanted book, and able to possess people. He did favour Lockhart’s interpretation that it was a young Dark wizard’s ghost, not You-Know-Who himself though, a thought he found more reassuring (though still worrying). He believed Harry too though – that the ghost _claimed_ to be You-Know-Who.

“If you don’t want to give the diary to Dumbledore, I think you should hand it over to the Ministry, Harry.”

“But can they be trusted?”

Neville looked thoughtful. “I… guess. But Gran does go on sometimes about how the Ministry was infiltrated during the war. And about how some people – like the Malfoys – still hold more influence than they should. Sorry Harry, I know you’ve made friends with him but Gran hates that House.”

“Yeah, it’s alright. I don’t completely trust them either. I think The-House-Elf-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named belongs to them, you know.”

“Are you sure?”

“Not completely. But pretty sure. I’m going ahead with my plan to try and buy D- the elf, so I’ll find out one way or the other. I don’t want to just ask Draco’s parents. In case that makes them… I dunno, less likely to sell. Or suspicious. I think that Draco’s dad might know something about the diary.”

“I could ask Gran what she’d do if we found a very dangerous cursed thing in the attic? Something from the war?”

“I guess,” Harry said, not having a better idea. “I don’t know what to make of that family.”

“I wouldn’t trust them if I was you. And are you sure about Lockhart?”

“Well I know he was definitely going to try and Obliviate _me_ , so I see no reason to assume my guess is wrong about him doing it in the past. You know we’ve all – apart from Hermione – been a little suspicious of his books right from the start.”

Neville shook his head bemusedly. “I still can’t get over you _actually_ being the Heir of Slytherin. And you in Gryffindor!”

“The hat _did_ want to put me in Slytherin,” Harry admitted. “That was actually its first choice. But… well, you know the reputation that House has. I didn’t want to go there, so I argued with it until it gave in. It still wouldn’t put me in Hufflepuff though.” Harry expounded again on his theory of hundreds of potential Heirs, with perhaps dozens of Parselmouths hiding their skills.

Neville listened politely, but looked unconvinced. “But if you combine that with beating the Killing Curse as a baby… I think you must be really special, Harry. Not like me. I’m just nobody.”

“You’re my _friend_. And really brave. And a good wizard. And top of the class in Herbology. That’s not being a nobody.”

Neville shrugged and changed the subject. “Do you think Hermione will be out of hospital soon?”

“I got some paperwork from the goblins to sign authorising a partial payment for importing mandrake roots, as well as a room fee, so I think she probably will be. I think the Malfoys are paying for most of the rest. It’s weird. I think Draco’s alright, if a bit overenthusiastic about thinking I’m the Heir of Slytherin, but his dad’s slippery as an eel. I can’t make him out. But don’t worry - I don’t really trust him.”

Harry’s correspondence was becoming a bit burdensome, actually. St. Mungo’s was thrilled he would be attending their summer fundraiser, he had an Appleby Arrows match to attend, a growing number of adult correspondents who had children at Hogwarts that had probably convinced their families he was the Heir of Slytherin and thus worth sucking up to, and assorted fans. Many of whom were very excited by the rapidly spreading gossip about his adventure in the Chamber of Secrets, and some of whom were politely apologetic about their previous suspicions about him.

He’d decided to send out his letter early to the Office for House-Elf Relocation to register interest in buying Dobby. Knowing how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turned at the Ministry, he thought it better to start now as that would give him a chance to follow-up about it over summer. He sent a cover letter explaining his interest in discreetly purchasing a hard-working house-elf named Dobby he’d encountered that he believed was bonded to the Malfoy estate, and that he didn’t want his name mentioned unless _absolutely necessary_. He explained that he wanted to avoid a public fuss, didn’t want to risk offending the family with his enquiry, and would prefer to ensure fair pricing (one way or the other). His official request for dissemination read:

_“I require a house-elf who is accustomed to firm discipline and will not balk at hard labour, as the tasks demanded of it will be exacting both physically and magically. This role is thus unsuitable for a young or elderly house-elf, or a female with elflings. Must come from a superior family, as skill in etiquette is also required.”_

After some consideration of the claims of corruption in the Ministry, he added an extra line to his cover letter, trying to hint that he would acknowledge that he would owe them a favour (or be willing to bribe them if necessary).

“ _I greatly appreciate the tact and discretion which I have no doubt you will show in this matter, and I would be in debt to you for your efforts on my behalf._ ”

He worked on it for ages, but Neville seemed unsure of it, so he ran the draft idea by Percy, after first asking for his discretion in a delicate matter. Percy seemed to think it looked alright, and suggested that one might usually gift a helpful staff member with a formal letter or card of thanks if money was refused.

“It would be rude to make a fuss or insist, so if they say no a card would be very appropriate and expected. You’re too young to invite them to dinner parties you’re hosting, obviously, or to offer to assist them in their careers or so on. It would seem too arrogant. I think it’s wise to follow protocol and go through the appropriate Ministry office rather than approach this mystery family directly, by the way. It might be seen as gauche by some of the more traditional families to try and directly buy their house-elf. They’d worry every time you visited that you had your eye on acquiring their belongings every time you admired something. The Ministry has been brokering transfers of house-elves for centuries now.”

He was excited to get a letter from the Ministry only a couple of days later, but it turned out to be a response to an earlier missive he’d sent to Mr. Crouch in April, enquiring about possible magical means of learning languages (such as French). The reply was terse but cordial, and advised applying to the _Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages_ , which advertised periodically in the _Daily Prophet_ , and had branches world-wide including in London. Mr. Crouch said he highly recommended them, and that discounts were available to regular clients.

***

“Remain behind after class, Mr. Potter,” Professor Snape instructed brusquely a week or so later, as Harry handed in his potion after class. They’d started their potions the previous day and left them to simmer overnight, finishing them off in class that afternoon.

“Is my potion not acceptable?” he asked.

“It is… adequate. Up to your usual standard.”

Well, that was somewhat reassuring. Nothing was wrong at all with his potion. He wondered what Snape wanted to talk about. The “battle” with the Basilisk, perhaps? A lot of people had been trying to get more details out of him. Saying he’d promised Lockhart to not spoil his book had gotten him out of a lot of difficult conversations lately.

As he waited at the desk, Professor Snape chatted politely about his potion. “The Wideye Potion would have been useful for awakening the students in the Chamber; it is a safe alternative for counteracting the effects of a Stupefy spell; useful for those who are unskilled with the counter-spell. It is also a common medicinal potion for dealing with concussion or the soporific effects of some other potions such as a Sleeping Draught; contraindications for its use are few.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” said Harry interestedly. “It only mentions the ability to keep you awake in the text. I thought it might be useful for late night studying. Like magical coffee.” He wished he’d had some extra vials to save some potion for his own use – why had he never thought of that before?

“It is not suitable for long-term use, so I wouldn’t advise that on a regular basis,” he said, tidying up the potion samples handed in by students into a wooden carrying rack.

“While the general run of students are too incompetent to be trusted with the more expensive varieties of cauldrons, you might be interested to hear that the brewing time can be reduced with a different composition of cauldron. While almost a full day is required for the first stage in a pewter cauldron, this can be reduced to fourteen hours in a brass or bronze cauldron, or a mere eight hours for a copper cauldron.”

Harry scribbled notes about that down in the margins of his textbook, which made Snape smile thinly at him.

“Would you see a further reduction in brewing time for a noble metal cauldron? And does the variety of snake fangs used have an impact on the potion’s efficacy?”

“Yes, silver greatly reduces brewing time but at the expense of the potency of the potion; copper is the most optimal choice. I don’t believe alterations from different species of snake fangs has ever been a variation studied. Your own snake may wish to note that non-magical snake fangs and other components are typically used due to their low cost as ingredients. It would be unwise to experiment with magical varieties unless you held a Mastery in Potions, as they can be quite volatile ingredients.” Harry jotted down another note.

Some Slytherins were trying to linger and eavesdrop (packing up suspiciously slowly), but they left at last as Harry’s conversation trailed off and the two just waited quietly.

Professor Snape closed the door behind the last straggler. “I’ve been talking with some of your other teachers, Harry,” he said, sitting down behind his potion-pitted and burn-scarred desk and steepling his fingers under his chin. “It is not just Potions you are deliberately turning in substandard work for, is it?”

“I never turn in substandard work!” Harry said, aggrieved. And they’d been having such a _nice_ chat. He wished Snape explained things like that in class more often; he’d learn a lot more.

“You turn in _adequate_ work. When you could be performing at a much higher standard.”

“I don’t know what you mean. It’s only Potions that I’ve had to do that in, because you didn’t want me to do well at first,” Harry said, lying through his teeth with an innocent look of aggrieved surprise on his face. Snape glared piercingly at him.

“You’re lying.”

 _Is he reading my mind?_ Harry wondered, before breaking eye contact to glance around the classroom. It was so unfair. Being a Legilimens was supposed to be a _rare_ talent.

Snape still didn’t understand _why_ Harry had been acting so oddly, but thought it best to confirm his theory about the boy’s performance in classes before acting on it further. If Harry was becoming suspicious he was a Legilimens it was going to make that job a _lot_ harder. “You will get an O in your final exams for Charms, or I shall be discussing your behavioural problems in regards to grades with the Headmaster,” Snape threatened. “As you achieved an E grade last year such an improvement should seem unremarkable, thus you can have no cause for concern on that account.”

Charms was a good place to start. Professor Flitwick had raved defensively (when prompted by means of insulting Mr. Potter’s inferior spellcasting) about the skill required to cast a Smokescreen Spell in a ring shape, when it usually was just an expanding cloud. And although he’d discounted the man’s hysterical ramblings months ago, Filch’s claims that Harry practised advanced spells in secret seemed more plausible lately.

Harry’s head whipped back angrily to glare at Snape, before he remembered to break eye contact. He glared at the man’s stupid big nose instead, that looked perfect for poking into other people’s business.

“Fine,” he muttered rebelliously. “I’ll study like crazy to get an O. I hope that makes you happy.”

“ _Excessively_ ,” Snape said, in a sneering drawl. “You may depart, now.”

Harry grabbed his bag off the floor and stomped moodily out the door. Stupid interfering blackmailing Slytherins! He was simply plagued by them this year!

Harry reviewed and adjusted his plans for his final grades that evening. He would still go for an Outstanding for Herbology, and while an O for Defence would be lovely, he decided whatever grade he got in DADA would do. It probably wouldn’t be an O this year – he honestly couldn’t stomach memorising all those little details about Lockhart’s favourite colour, or love of hair-care potions – oddly it had never seemed to faze Hermione at all. A lower grade would balance things out anyway. Charms he grudgingly pencilled in for an O. He had been planning to take that up _next_ year.

E for History (which should make Hermione happy) with help again from Millicent’s anonymous informant, and A for Transfiguration and Astronomy. Lastly, an Acceptable (with brewing to O standard) for Potions.

DADA for the next month was made a quiet self-study period supervised by Madam Hooch or Professor Burbage (the Muggle Studies professor) depending on what year you were in (Second Years got Madam Hooch). Though Harry had honestly been treating it as a self-study period for a long while. He did better study for Defence _out_ of the classroom, with last year’s textbook. Much like History of Magic, DADA was really useful for catching up on his correspondence courses in English, Maths, and Science, as well as writing up study notes for Dudley. Maths, Science, History and French were the subjects Dudley had demanded the most help for. He’d learnt in the past not to sit near Hermione in either DADA or History of Magic – she nagged him (as politely as she could manage) if she spotted him not paying attention to the teacher. At least… she used to. He hoped she’d be back soon, good as new.

***

On the first of May both Neville and Eloise Midgen joined Harry in representing Gryffindor in the group of traditionalists celebrating Beltane with songs and feasting round a campfire, though Harry did check first that Snape wouldn’t be attending (he was worried about it frightening the life out of Neville). People seemed cautiously pleased to see another new member, even one who wasn’t sure if he’d come next time. Harry chatted about how it was actually one of the only co-operative inter-House activities the school had, which was a crying shame, and not at all up to the standard of how things were done in Muggle schools. It was food for thought for some of the pure-bloods who started brainstorming possible ways to improve things, rather than sneering about Muggles. It was generally approved, for the Slytherins could appreciate the networking opportunities, the Hufflepuffs liked the idea of building wider friendships, and the Ravenclaws thought inter-house study groups and clubs could be fun and useful.

Later in that first week of May, a full month before Hogwarts’ mandrakes would be mature enough to harvest, Hermione, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Colin Creevey returned to Hogwarts, to the delight of all their friends.

Both Finch-Fletchley and Creevey thanked Harry most sincerely (Creevey much more effusively). Finch-Fletchley also took Harry aside for a quiet word to let him know that his parents were very grateful for Harry’s assistance in getting him un-petrified earlier than the school had allowed for, and insisting they be notified of their son’s state. He shook Harry’s hand solemnly, and let him know that his father was going to repay him the full costs of the medical expenses that Harry had incurred, in Muggle currency. Harry tried to demur, and also explained that the Malfoys helped a lot too.

“We’re happy to pay _you_ the money, Potter. Father certainly doesn’t want anyone to think we need to rely on _charity_. And I’m sorry for you know, before,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I was all wrong about you. But Malfoy on the other hand was a completely smug git who was _glad_ people were being petrified, especially us ‘Mudbloods’. I’ve heard all about it. So no, we won’t be repaying him. Maybe Creevey’s parents could pay them instead, or the Grangers. It could balance out that way.”

“Alright then, I understand,” Harry said, and gave him his vault details. “And Muggle money should be fine. If the goblins try and charge you for making a deposit, be sure to sneer at them and refuse to pay a fee, by the way.”

“Really?”

“Trust me, you actually get better service if you’re firm with them. They’ve got a haggling, argumentative kind of banking culture. I think it’s a goblin thing.”

Later, Hermione nattered on and on with a fixed kind of determined cheerfulness about how she _knew_ it was a Basilisk.

“I had this theory about how seeing it _indirectly_ was why people had been petrified rather than killed. Did you know a vampire can’t enthral you with its gaze if seen indirectly in a mirror? There’s a few magical powers like that which require direct eye contact only. And that’s why I was looking in a mirror when I got petrified, I had it floating in the air when I heard something… and then I was trying to cast a spell at the Basilisk, but it’s not easy to cast spells behind you, you know! And then there was a big pair of yellow snake eyes in the mirror, and… nothing. It got me. Did you figure out about the reflections from seeing my mirror on the ground?” she asked anxiously. “Did it help?”

“No, we missed that. Your bag spilled everywhere – I guess your mirror just got mixed up with your other stuff,” Harry apologised. “We did figure out it was a Basilisk though, and where it was hiding.”

Neville joined in too. “Sorry, Hermione.”

“I got attacked,” she said shakily. “Again.”

“Right there with you,” said Harry with a resigned sigh. “Let’s just say I won’t be making friends with the _next_ DADA teacher in a hurry.”

“I heard you used the Smokescreen Spell against it. _I_ should have thought of Fumos, and then used Sonorus to call for help. I thought about using Incendio but you don’t use that on dragons, and I thought it might be a bit like a dragon with those giant scales, so I tried Stunning it first, but that just didn’t work.” Her overly tight smile fell away. “Then it got me. I failed. I _failed_.”

“No-one told me Hogwarts would be this dangerous.” Her bottom lip quivered like she was holding back tears, and she hugged Neville and Harry tightly. “It was _so_ dangerous! You were so brave for chasing it down, but you really _should_ have just told a teacher. What if you’d been petrified or killed!”

“We tried! Honestly! But they were so sure it was a spider for some reason. We needed to gather more evidence to convince them, and then once we had it Lockhart stunned us both!” Harry said.

She didn’t hold a grudge against Lockhart – in fact she seemed positively starry-eyed to hear about his defeat of the Basilisk. She didn’t dwell on the topic though, as she immediately afterwards began starting to obsessively stress about exams (only four weeks away!) so Harry left Neville trying to comfort her while he darted up to the boys’ dorm, coming back with a red folder.

“Here,” he said shyly, “we made you notes. Of you know, all the classes you missed the past couple of weeks.” She darted at him again with arms outstretched and he dodged away.

“No hugs! Enough hugging!” he cried. She chased him around the Common Room for a little while, to the general laughter of all (even Harry), and the happy whirrs and clicks of Colin’s new camera.

***

As time wore on, the Slytherins seemed increasingly sceptical of Lockhart’s claims of glorious victory, though they didn’t seem to doubt Harry had by some means seen the Chamber of Secrets with Lockhart accompanying him. The four girls cornered him out in the grounds one day and quizzed him a bit about events. “No-one defeats ghouls with a tea strainer, like in his books. And he’s changed his story for the Prophet about how he found the Chamber of Secrets – twice,” Pansy said accusingly.

“Well, he’s more interested in telling the story dramatically, so some fine details might fall by the wayside occasionally,” said Harry with a shrug and a smile.

“I read in _Witch Weekly_ that Lockhart said the Basilisk was blue, but when you were telling us about it in the hospital wing you said it was green. What colour is it really, Harry?” asked Daphne sweetly.

Harry thought he’d better back Lockhart up. The forgetful git. “Well, it was a blue-green, a kind of turquoise I guess. More blue on the whole, I suppose.”

The girls all grinned at each other knowingly, in a way that made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand up.

“What?”

“Professor Lockhart hasn’t done any interviews for _Witch Weekly_ yet. And in the Prophet, he said it was green,” Daphne said.

Harry scowled at them. “Well, it was a greeny-blue. I’m no expert at colours. And I didn’t get to see it for very long before it crumbled to dust.”

“Why are you backing his ridiculous claims?” demanded Pansy, stomping her foot crossly and pouting unattractively. “We know he’s full of rubbish. If he’s a real hero I’ll cut my hair.” Daphne gasped in shocked amusement, and Millicent giggled.

Harry thought for a moment and decided to share a bit of the truth, since the cover story obviously wasn’t working. They were his friends, and could probably be trusted not to turn on him. Of course, he’d thought that about Ron too. Still, they were sneaky types who might be able to give him a little advice, which he could sorely use.

“He’s blackmailing me,” he admitted. They gasped in surprise. “Not that it’s all that bad, mind you! Or even all true – it’s not. And I won’t say what, so don’t ask. But if he started slandering me in public, I think people might believe him. And he said if it came down to his word against mine, they’d make us _both_ take Veritaserum and ask all kinds of prying questions. Do you think the Aurors would really do that?”

There was some chatter and argument on the matter, including Pansy calling Tracey a naïve idiot for thinking the Ministry didn’t have any corruption, and claiming that just being with Harry didn’t count for Slytherins not being able to disagree with each other in public, so no-one had to leave to argue elsewhere. Eventually the general conclusion was that some Aurors would no doubt _love_ to ferret out any secrets Harry had, given the excuse.

“There’s no ‘right to privacy’,” said Pansy, glaring at Tracey, who scowled at her. “If they find out you’re following the Old Ways, for instance, it’d be all over the _Daily Prophet_ the next day.”

“I still say they’d keep it confidential,” Tracey said stubbornly. “They’re very professional.”

“But even if that’s so, what about the tea lady who overhears them gossiping about things to each other? And what if he’s done something bad enough to be accused of a crime? Then it _definitely_ would go public, even if it turns out he is found innocent in the end. And if he’s guilty everyone would fall over themselves to turn on their fallen Light hero.”

“Can you blackmail him back? Have you got any dirt on him?” suggested Millicent.

“I am a bit already. But… I don’t have enough to stick for any kind of charges, I think. He tried to attack me and failed, and he’s lying about some of the events in the Chamber,” said Harry. “I think it likely a lot of his books are fabricated – made up from things other people did that he’s stolen credit for.”

“Hmm, not really enough,” she mused. “You would need something more solid than that, real evidence and not just hearsay, if he’s got something good or plausible held over you. His reputation is very strong at the moment, and his connections are probably well established.”

Harry sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll have to let it go, then. I honestly don’t mind him taking the lion’s share of the credit. It just bugs me that he might’ve gotten away with doing the same thing to other people.”

“You really _were_ in the Chamber of Secrets, though, weren’t you Harry? And there really was a Basilisk there?” asked Daphne.

“Oh yes! That part is true. And Lockhart really _did_ fight off being possessed quite impressively, even though I think it was less due to ‘knowing I had to save those poor innocent students’ and more because the spirit said he was going to burn his gaudy turquoise robe with the peacocks on the hem.”

They all snickered together at that.

“I do actually like that robe, but goodness, that’s simply hilarious. What other changes did he make to the story?” Daphne asked sweetly.

“Oh no, that’s enough,” said Harry warily. The Slytherins had always been a bit weird about the whole “Heir” thing. Any random person from centuries ago would have tens of thousands of descendants! He was still sure there were probably dozens of Parselmouths who just didn’t want to admit to their ability publicly. He kept telling people that, but almost no-one except Hermione agreed with him about that.

“Do you think it was just a dead teenager’s ghost, or the spirit of the Dark Lord?” Daphne persisted.

“I really couldn’t say,” Harry said vaguely.

“Then can you tell us what else is down there in the Chamber of Secrets?” asked Pansy curiously.

“You mean the statues? They were just like I described. Oh, and there was a pool of water, but it was all murky and disgusting.”

“No, I mean besides that. Or in any other parts of the Chamber,” said Pansy, with a roll of her eyes.

“There wasn’t anything else,” Harry said, mystified. “It was a pretty empty room.”

Pansy huffed irritatedly at him. “It’s the Chamber of _Secrets_ , plural, not the Chamber of the Blindingly Obvious,” she sneered. “Didn’t you explore at _all_?”

“There wasn’t time,” Harry said defensively.

“There’s time _now_ ,” said Daphne excitedly. “We could help!”

“Well, I suppose it might be interesting to explore,” he conceded. “But I think it’d be better to go on my own, at least at first. The snake statues seemed really ready to attack if you didn’t say the right things, and I’d hate for one of you to get hurt.” Not to mention the Basilisk was still down there, just napping. Probably.

“You’ll tell us what you find though, Harry? And make a sketch of Salazar Slytherin’s statue for us?” asked Daphne sweetly.

“Alright, alright! With details of the robes and everything. Though I warn you - Art was always honestly one of my worst subjects. And you can keep this discussion completely _private_. That means not telling Malfoy, either.” Pansy sulked unhappily at him about that, but eventually realised he was going to stand firm against her whining.

***

After getting his correspondence course final English essay and his Maths and Science exams out of the way (signed by Harry as being supervised by his grandmother), Harry had a little leisure time to explore. He decided after a little pondering to go on his own one evening, rather than risk his friends being attacked by statues or the Basilisk. Well, he wouldn’t be _quite_ alone.

“ _Are we visiting Custoss? I liked her. She was sssmart,_ ” Storm hissed approvingly.

“ _I think she’ll probably be asleep_ ,” Harry hissed apologetically, nodding politely to someone who bowed as he passed. “ _But we can explore together. Maybe you could chat to the ssstatuess._ ”

Harry greeted Myrtle’s ghost politely, using her first name after some insistence on her part. He in turn asked that she not gossip about his visits to the Chamber of Secrets, since they were friends now, and she promised to keep his secrets. “They’re saying that you helped defeat the Basilisk, Harry, and that maybe _it_ was what killed me!” He waited while she told her rather unglamorous story of how she’d died; it was worrying that under at least certain circumstances, the Basilisk _would_ kill students. He liked to think it was by accident, but maybe Tom had commanded her.

“Did you perchance have a boy named Tom Riddle in your year at school?”

“Ooh yes! I remember him, but he was a couple of years ahead of me – he was one of the Slytherin prefects. He was ever so handsome and charming. And smart! He was Head Boy later on, you know, after I died. But he didn’t pay any attention to poor, spotty, speccy four-eyes Myrtle.” Well, at least he was a real person once. Something to ponder in his ever decreasing spare time.

 “I don’t have the leisure for it right now, Miss War… Myrtle, but after my exams are finished I wonder if you would be so kind as to assist me with some research into the nature of ghosts? I would be ever so grateful.” He explained to the curious girl how he would like to experiment and find out how far from her bathroom she could wander, and what conditions might alter that. She wanted to help right away, but he explained how he wanted to measure and graph things, and she poutingly agreed to wait. He hoped he’d be able to talk the Gryffindor ghost into helping too, for a second set of data points. Hermione was excited by the plan and keen to help too, so long as it was after exams. He’d been trying to research ghosts and their abilities, but whenever he found a promising looking reference to possession the source book turned out to be either withdrawn from circulation, or in the Restricted Section. And the latter was problematic now, for with Lockhart away from the school the librarian was starting to look suspiciously at his continuing supply of signed passes for books from the Restricted Section, so he’d reluctantly decided to call that quits.

Harry headed for the main room he’d been in when he woke up – it was just as spooky as he remembered. The light spells (whatever they had been) had dissipated, and he kept a bright Lumos running on the tip of his wand so he could see.

The snake statues proved rather limited in their conversational range (to Storm’s disappointment in particular), and could only discuss their job guarding the doors. They said they would bite to kill anyone who couldn’t command them in Parseltongue, but required no special password to bypass – just asking them to open the door sufficed.

The ones on the hall’s stone pillars were even more close-mouthed. He knew they were animated, but they seemed to take delight in moving about only when he wasn’t watching them. He’d spin around to catch the last tiny bit of movement, and then they’d be still as stone in their new positions. They wouldn’t speak to him initially, but when he ordered them to as the Heir of Slytherin, they hissed happily, “ _A new ssscion of the House of Ssslytherin!_ ”

Harry was wary of approaching the statue he believed the Basilisk was hidden within, but it did prompt him to check the Chamber thoroughly for secret passages. After making a sketch of the statue from a safe distance for Pansy, he flipped to a new page in his notebook and started mapping out the room.

He got lucky on the sixth snake-covered pillar he checked; Aparecium revealed a ring of tiny previously invisible runes around the base of the pillar near the floor, and his second stab at a passphrase succeeded with a hissed command in Parseltongue.

Harry hissed at the snake on the pillar, “ _Open in the name of Sssalazar Ssslytherin!_ ” And with a grinding noise the bottom-most cylindrical block in the large pillar slid to one side, revealing a very narrow entrance in the floor that broadened out further below, with a spiralling stone staircase leading down into the darkness. He looked nervously at the rest of the heavy stone pillar that now appeared to be hanging from the ceiling, unsupported by anything. He wondered what was holding it up – magic?

“ _Hello?_ ” he called out cautiously in Parseltongue. “ _If there’ss any Basiliskss or ssserpentss down there, I ask in Sssalazar Ssslytherin’ss name that you not attack._ ”

He thought he heard a very faint hiss from below, but it was hard to be sure.

“ _If it helpss_ ,” hissed Storm, “ _you might like to know that I don’t sssmell-taste any living creaturess down there.”_

“ _Thank you, that is reassuring_.”

Harry descended carefully into the darkness, his only light the glow emanating from his wand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: An advertisement for the “Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages” appears in the “Harry Potter Limited Edition - A Guide to the Graphic Arts Department: Posters, Prints, and Publications from the Harry Potter Films”.
> 
> Honestly, there has to be some kind of shortcut for Crouch to know so many languages – this seemed like a good choice. Don’t you agree?
> 
> One of my reviewers Sephonered commented on Chapter 17 that Harry wouldn’t have heard the last of his deal with Snape. I sooo wanted to quote The Empire Strikes Back in response to that review, but I worried it’d give things away. So here’s the quote now!
> 
> Vader/Snape: “I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further.”  
> Lando/Harry (muttering): “This deal is getting worse all the time.”
> 
> There’s only two chapters of this fic left to post, now! If you’re reading this in June ’16, be sure to read the author notes for the upcoming two chapters, so you know what’s coming next after the last chapter of this fic is uploaded.


	26. Secrets and Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry continues his explorations of the Chamber of Secrets, gets out-Slytherined by a friend (again!), and does an experiment with ghosts.

**_June 1993_ **

The Chamber of Secrets was, initially, a big disappointment. The hidden staircase led to a tunnel, guarded by yet more snakes of course, off which he eventually uncovered a secret door leading to an ancient study. Or so he guessed from the recessed stone bookshelf, and an odd wall section of criss-crossing diamond shaped hollows that one of the snakes told him was for efficiently storing a large number of scrolls. It was, regrettably, completely bare. In fact, there were not even any scraps of old rotted parchment or decayed wood, or even that much dust. Which led him to conclude that at some point in the intervening centuries since Salazar Slytherin’s time someone before him had found the room and looted it bare. Another hour of exploring and painstaking spellcasting and searching the walls in a grid pattern found a tiny snake engraved on a stone block low to the ground, which revealed the entrance to another hidden room, even more empty than the first. If not for interrogating the large stone cobra decorating the now-revealed door lintel, he’d have had no idea this was once a bedroom.

He returned to the main chamber, disappointed for now, and made a detailed drawing of the runic circle that Tom had been planning to activate. It, like the ritual knife and the goblet, and the map he was making of the Chamber of Secrets, would be going into the secret compartment at the bottom of his trunk, where he kept his letters from Quirrell. (As he’d recently changed the password on it to the Parseltongue phrase for “That’s one small step for man”, he felt pretty secure with it as a hiding place.) And then, he erased the writing with many repeated (and tiring) targeted uses of the general counter-spell - Finite Incantatem. If the ghost _did_ somehow manage to come back, he wasn’t going to make it easy for it. He wished he knew some good cleaning charms, but so far he’d only learnt one for washing cooking pots (from his magical cookbook) which he hadn’t even practised much because you couldn’t use it on potions cauldrons for potions safety reasons.

The only other remotely exciting discovery was finding an extra exit (or entrance!) to the main Chamber – a hidden side tunnel led up a spiralling path to the boys’ bathroom on the Fourth Floor near the library, near where Storm had detected the trail of the Basilisk. The back wall of one of the toilet cubicles sank down into the ground when a snake was commanded to open the door. However, Harry quickly learnt that it would only do so when there was no-one in the cubicle, which seemed like a good security measure. It said it had been told to do so by a “past Scion” of Salazar Slytherin named Tom Marvolo Riddle, which did at least establish that the boy was once an acknowledged Heir. It made sense – Harry doubted that toilet cubicles existed in their present state a thousand years ago, so Heirs over the centuries must have made some alterations.

The next evening he took Neville and Hermione down for a look around the main chamber, but aside from the statue, they respectively pronounced it “dispiritingly dull” and “kind of boring, actually”. Hermione also found all the snake statues a bit creepy.

“Don’t you think it makes it kind of friendly?” asked Harry, who didn’t mind them at all; he’d gotten used to them now and liked how they always greeted him warmly.

“Maybe if you can understand them they’re friendly. They seem to just hiss softly and flick their tongues at you. But when you’re not looking, they’re looking kind of crossly at me and Neville. One lunged at me like it was going to bite me when I went too near!”

“That’s interesting!” said Harry, then caught the look in her eye. “Bad, of course, and I’m glad you’re alright,” he amended, “but still interesting because it’s unusual. Which one was it?”

Hermione pointed out a tiny stone snake hidden amongst some decorative abstract carvings on one of the walls, and Harry after some hissing and pronouncing himself Slytherin’s Heir, was permitted to pass safely with his companions in tow.

“That’s great, Hermione! You’ve found another secret door!” he said happily, as the oddly shaped door that followed the mortar lines swung open. Hermione looked rather proud, and excited to have discovered something new.

Their wands alight with a soft magical glow, they explored cautiously, Harry in the lead. It led to a dungeon. A real, proper dungeon, with six cells to keep prisoners in, and heavily tarnished manacles, he guessed made of silver, attached to the walls. One prisoner had never left – a pile of bones, including a recognisably human skull, lay next to the wall. That was enough for them all – they turned around and left.

“That was disgusting! To think Salazar Slytherin had an actual dungeon! Do you think that was a Muggle? Or a Muggle-born?” worried the green-faced Hermione, as they exited the dungeon and the hidden door swung behind them.

“I don’t think there’s any way we could find out…” Harry paused. “Well, I suppose I could ask some snakes, later. Sometimes they know what their rooms were used for. Like the bedroom I found, that didn’t have any furniture in it.”

Pansy was thrilled to receive the gift of a sketch of Salazar Slytherin, but was greedy for more. Pansy, Daphne, Millicent, Tracey, and Draco (who was still being ever so polite to Harry and hanging around him as much as possible), were less nauseated by the idea of a dungeon with dangerous snakes everywhere than the Gryffindors, and insisted on getting a tour of it as well.

“Okay, but we have to be careful, and don’t gossip about it to anyone else. I don’t want to be giving regular tours like some two-bit tour guide,” warned Harry, “so we’ll go after dinner but before curfew, when there’s not so many people around to see where we go. I don’t want everyone guessing where the entrance is.”

The Slytherins certainly appreciated his wish to keep things secretive, and seemed to enjoy the privileged position of being among a select few who would get to see the Chamber of Secrets; they promised not to blab about it.

Though Pansy admitted when they gathered that same evening in Myrtle’s bathroom that she’d shown Harry’s drawing of the statue to a number of people.

“You didn’t say I _couldn’t_ ,” she quibbled. “It doesn’t reveal the entrance, or the fact you are giving tours. All it suggests is that you know how to get in and out of the Chamber of Secrets, and people already know you can do that.” Harry sighed resignedly, which made her smile happily (and a bit smugly at her minor triumph).

The Slytherins _loved_ seeing the Chamber of Secrets, and the statue of Salazar Slytherin. Draco, Harry noticed, listened intently when Harry hissed the passphrase to command the secret door leading to the dungeons to open.

“Did you say ‘Salazar Slytherin’ as part of that?”

 “How did you know that?” asked Harry, very surprised. “Can you understand Parseltongue?”

“Oh no,” said Draco, “but I heard something a bit like ‘Ssssall-hass-sssar’ in the middle of it, so it seemed like a reasonable guess, all things considered. I couldn’t even make some of the hissing noises you seem to come out with.”

Harry and Draco followed the girls into the dungeon area ahead. He didn’t know why they wanted to see a dead body – it was a bit gross. Harry and Storm both took turns saying “Harold” to find out what his name sounded like in Parseltongue, but Draco said it just sounded like soft hisses from the snake, and sibiliant hissing words from Harry – a bit like “Hsss-sss” and not at all recognisable to him. He was pleased to hear that Harry’s real name was Harold, and puffed up with self-importance at being entrusted with that little secret, though Harry insisted it wasn’t a _secret_ , just not commonly known.

A girlish scream rang out from ahead, and the angry hisses of “ _Intruder!_ ” from around them made Harry curse as he realised what must have happened. He darted ahead to catch up to where the girls had gone, pushing past the other three girls as they ran away in fear – Millicent was sitting on the ground crying and clutching a bleeding hand, and otherwise staying very still as stone snakes slithered off the wall to wrap her in their coils.

“Harry! Help me!” she sobbed fearfully.

“ _Release her! I command you as Sssalazar Ssslytherin’ss Heir! She is my guest here!”_

“ _She sssought to open the cell, Heir!_ ” hissed a snake, reluctantly uncoiling from her neck. “ _It is forbidden for otherss to release prisonerss!_ ”

“ _Then she shall not! But release her at once - I shall escort her from here! Now!_ ” Harry assumed what he thought of as his “arrogant pure-blood” pose, suitable for such tasks as bossing around recalcitrant house-elves, straightening his back and gesturing commandingly.

“ _Do as Harold sssays!_ ” Storm hissed, backing him up unnecessarily (but loyally) from his place atop Harry’s shoulders.

The snakes all slithered back to the walls and returned to temporary immobility.

Millicent sobbed and stayed frozen in place. “Is it… safe to move now? Did you explain I’m a pure-blood? And a Slytherin?”

Harry reached a hand down to help her up. “No, I… they didn’t know. It doesn’t matter to them, they just guard the doors.”

“But I’m a _Slytherin_!” she hiccupped between sobs. “I’m a pure-blood witch – I’m a _Bulstrode_! Tell them!”

“ _She wishess you to know that she is a pure-blood witch, from the House of Bulstrode, and a member of Ssslytherin’ss House here at Hogwarts_.”

“ _That is good she is in our Founder’s House. We do not kill the apprenticess of Hogwartss_ ,” hissed three snakes in eerie unison. “ _But she may not open the cellss. We sssensed her magic and that is why we did not ssstrike to kill._ ”

“Ah,” said Harry.

“Well?”

“They could tell you’re a witch, which is why they didn’t try and kill you,” he explained. “I’m not sure they really cared about the rest of it much, except that they did say it’s good you’re in Slytherin. Sorry.”

“But I’m a _pure-blood_!” whined Millicent again. “They shouldn’t attack _me_. I want to get out of here, Harry. And the others left! They just left me!”

A quiet voice came from further back down the corridor, as Draco said, “I didn’t leave. But I didn’t want to come closer in case I made things worse.” He was still standing where Harry had left him, his wand helping light up the passageway.

“Thank you, Draco,” sniffed Millicent gratefully.

“They were just scared,” Harry said apologetically. “They panicked. And I’m so sorry, Millicent, I never meant for anyone to get hurt; I’m really, really sorry. I should’ve talked to the snakes more, and not let you go ahead of me.”

Harry and Draco took her back out into the main Chamber, where the other girls waited, unable to pass by the main doors (or unwilling to try, given the snakes barring the doors). They seemed very glad to see everyone was alright, but it wasn’t the happiest reunion with Millicent yelling angrily about why they had left her to be attacked by snakes.

Harry offered to cast a healing spell on Millicent’s hand, but she wanted to see Madam Pomfrey, so Daphne (whom she seemed to forgive first) escorted her up there.

“You might need to tell her it was a snake statue,” Harry said. “Just in case it was venomous.” Millicent paled and the two hurried away quickly, trailed by the remaining two girls.

“Well, that could have gone better,” muttered Harry to himself as he closed the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets with a hiss, and the sink slid back into place. Myrtle’s ghost was thankfully absent for a change.

“No-one died,” said Draco philosophically, still hanging around. “And I thought it was very interesting.”

“Going to tell your father all about it, I suppose,” grouched Harry.

“If I have your permission to relay such information,” said Draco in a polite and cautious tone of voice.

Harry stared at him. “I’d rather you didn’t. But you know I’m not the Heir, right? I’m nothing special, I’m just an average kind of wizard apart from being a Parselmouth. I’d like you to keep things secret because we’re kind of friends, but not because I’m ordering you to.”

“You _are_ the Heir. I know all about it, and exactly what _really_ happened down in the Chamber of Secrets. Professor Lockhart told my father _all_ about it. Father can be very persuasive - especially when a quantity of Galleons are involved.” Draco smiled smugly at Harry.

Harry swore. “Merlin’s beard, why on earth would he go blabbing to your father? Dammit, you have to keep this to yourself, Draco, I’m serious. Wow, I can’t believe you didn’t panic about the Basilisk still being alive – you stayed cool as a cucumber down there in the Chamber.” He must’ve been a whisker away from being sorted into Gryffindor, with how calm he’d been down there, not to mention staying to watch over him and Millicent when the others ran. Talk about a poker face! Harry had had no idea.

Draco grinned an intolerably smug smile. “Professor Lockhart didn’t go ‘blabbing’. I lied.”

Harry froze. “What?!”

“It was a bluff – a very well executed one if I do say so myself. So now I know for _sure_ you’re the Heir. _And_ that the Basilisk is actually still alive. Wow!” he looked very wide-eyed and excited at the idea. “I _thought_ it was odd that Slytherin’s Heir would help to kill Slytherin’s monster!”

Harry buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Don’t worry Harry, I’ll keep your secrets,” assured Draco grandly. “Father says it’s important to not betray your patron, and to always be supportive of them socially. I’m not casting _any_ public doubt on your story about what happened in the battle with the Basilisk.”

Harry just groaned again.

“Harry? You’re not going to curse me, are you?” Draco said nervously. “I am, ahhh, very sorry for the deception I practised on you…”

“I’m _not_ the Dark Lord. Not even a little bit. Not any kind of Dark wizard. Being a Parselmouth does _not_ make me someone looking for minions!” he scowled at Draco.

“I’m not a _minion_!” objected Draco. “I’m trying to be a _friend_ here, and possibly establish a patron-client relationship! And of course you’re not the Dark Lord, he’s _dead_! And I wouldn’t ever want to follow someone who enslaved father so terribly with the Imperius curse, in any case,” he sniffed disapprovingly.

“But obviously you _are_ a powerful and promising wizard, with multiple rare talents, and you’re the Heir of Slytherin, and much more sneaky than people give you credit for. School isn’t just for learning – I could do that better at home with tutors. It’s for making connections that will be mutually beneficial for the future. And I know you’re going to be _someone_. You could be the wizard who helps reform society, and brings back the Old Ways so we don’t need to hide anymore. And father and mother both agree! So it must be true.”

“At least you don’t think I’m the Dark Lord. I guess that’s something.”

“Why would I think that?”

“I think your father does.”

“I doubt it,” said Draco. “Or he wouldn’t want me to make friends with you.”

“Since we’re being so open and honest… Do you know anything about the diary with Tom’s spirit in it?”

“Only one extra thing that’s not especially common knowledge – Tom Marvolo Riddle used to be in Slytherin, and got an award for ‘Special Award for Services to the School’. It’s in the trophy room – one of the few prizes won by a Slytherin. And incidentally, I heard from a little owl that you and Professor Lockhart will both be awarded one too.”

Harry thought that probably was indeed the extent of Draco’s knowledge, though he was sufficiently good at lying he wasn’t completely sure.

Harry warned Draco that both Dumbledore and Professor Snape were Legilimens, and Draco said he’d be careful – he knew a little Occlumency but would practice more rigorously. When Harry asked for tips he promised he’d owl Harry some notes over summer.

***

The next day at breakfast there was a note asking Harry to meet with the Headmaster at lunch time. Which he really, really didn’t want to do – especially not without witnesses. Perhaps Dumbledore would be less tempted to go rummaging through his memories if he had someone along with him. Harry tried asking Professor McGonagall if she’d accompany him, as his Head of House. She took a moment first to apologise to him for not wanting to hear what he and Neville had to say about the monster behind the petrifications, but was unwilling to accompany him to see the Headmaster.

“I understand that you feel a tad nervous, but I see no necessity to accompany you, Mr. Potter. I don’t believe you’re in any trouble, and I have a great many exam papers to prepare, as well as other tasks to attend to such as booklists to prepare for next year’s classes. I really am swamped with paperwork at this time of year.”

Harry was disappointed, but wasn’t deterred from his plan. He tried Professor Flitwick next, as he was the next friendliest teacher. He caught him in the hall between classes.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Potter! He probably simply wants to discuss the award you’re going to be granted for your role down in the Chamber of Secrets. Simply marvellous spell-casting, from all accounts!” squeaked Professor Flitwick enthusiastically. “That petition of yours is water under the bridge – he bears you no especial grudge on that account, I assure you.”

“Would you come with me, though? Professor McGonagall said she was too busy,” said Harry, with wide pleading eyes like Dudley asking for seconds of dessert. “I would feel a lot better if I had someone wise to advise me, if there’s some kind of problem.”

“Well, I still don’t see a need for it, but if it makes you feel better I’d be happy to come along since your own Head is quite understandably busy. Now run along! I have a class to get to, and so do you! I’ll meet you at the gargoyle at the start of lunch.”

The Headmaster was surprised to see Professor Flitwick accompanying Harry, giving him a thoughtful look, but didn’t seem to object to him sitting in on the meeting. He didn’t mention the rumoured award though – it was the Chamber of Secrets he wanted to discuss. Harry evaded questions about it with his practised line of having promised Professor Lockhart he wouldn’t spoil his book, which Dumbledore seemed to find frustrating. There was one thing he did insist on discussing though – Harry’s return to the Chamber of Secrets.

“We can’t have students gadding about and getting bitten by statues, my boy. It’s too risky,” he said gravely.

“You’ve been back? Oh how marvellous!” said Professor Flitwick. “What is it like down there?”

“Filius, a child has been badly bitten – she was lucky not to have sustained more damage, and may take some days to heal.”

“Oh yes, of course…” he said apologetically.

“It didn’t look that bad,” worried Harry. “I thought she’d be fixed up fast.”

“Ah, well as it was an _enchanted_ statue-”

“-it will take longer to heal because it’s a magical injury! Of course!” interrupted Harry. “Oh, poor Millicent.”

“I think the best thing to do would be to seal up the Chamber of Secrets altogether,” said Dumbledore gravely. “We don’t want people exploring down there away from supervision. What if one of your friends had been killed, Harry?”

Flitwick objected unhappily to the plan of sealing up the Chamber more than Harry did. Harry was merely gravely quiet and thoughtful.

Eventually, Harry spoke up with his agreement, and with obvious regret let them know where the entrance to the Chamber was, behind the sink in “Moaning Myrtle’s” bathroom. Dumbledore promised it would be sealed with wards so no-one could get through. Then he twinkled happily at him and thanked him for his assistance, and Harry smiled hesitantly back, before looking away shyly. There was still the second entrance he’d found. It would still be nice to have somewhere secure and private to practise his spells, with walls and a floor that were enchanted to be resistant to damage.

***

The first of June heralded the start of exams, and a triumphant fly-by visit from Professor Lockhart, released from hospital to watch over the childrens’ end of year exams for a few days. And along with Harry he was awarded a shield-shaped plaque for “Special Award for Services to the School”, which he accepted with a long speech full of false modesty. While Harry merely bowed to the school in a very traditional manner for someone accepting an honour, and said he and Storm were happy to have been of service. Storm hissed happily from Harry’s neck, oblivious to the fact he wasn’t actually being honoured in any way on this occasion (Harry had thought a little white lie was best). He had gotten his little fish from Harry earlier, and that was the most important thing to him, anyway.

Hermione was in full-on panic mode, and Harry not far behind her as they studied like crazy for the exams, with Neville dragged along in their wake. Ron tried to join them occasionally, but Harry mostly ignored his general chatter, and when talked to directly addressed him as “Weasley” which seems to annoy him (though it wasn’t deliberate). Neville and Hermione seemed friendlier with Ron than they had when he was fighting with Harry about being the Heir, but Ron mostly drifted back to his friendship with Seamus and Dean, feeling noticeably unwelcome. Hermione complained that he didn’t seem interested in their H.E.L.P. Society any more.

Harry felt pretty confident he would get the results he’d planned for on all his exams, though he had a funny feeling he’d overdone it for his “O” in Charms. Professor Flitwick kept looking faintly disappointed at him even when he’d cast the spell perfectly fine, and saying things like, “Well, I suppose if that’s the best you can do.” So Harry kept improving his spellcasting to show more control and refinement until he got the genuinely approving smile he was used to from class for a job especially well done, but he had a sinking feeling afterwards that it might’ve been Flitwick’s way of tricking him into excelling beyond the minimum required for an O. He scowled at Professor Snape when he saw him in the halls next – it was probably his fault, somehow. He got a raised eyebrow when he refused to explain his bad mood, and five points lost from Gryffindor for “making faces for no reason”. Despite their miniature spat, Professor Snape seemed to be sticking to his deal in the exam. He sneeringly pronounced that Harry’s textbook-perfect potion was “adequate”, and pointedly vanished the results afterwards – Harry felt confident of his Acceptable for that. He’d hesitated over what to do for the written portion of the exam, and decided to go for an Acceptable, choosing to leave some answers blank rather than write in deliberately wrong information. That should hopefully demonstrate that he _could_ do better if Snape insisted, but left no evidence of excelling in the subject.

The last couple of weeks of the school year after the end of exams were a very relaxing time – more so than last year with the messy business with the Philosopher’s Stone. Harry caught up with some socialising – chatting with Hermione and Neville about his plans to buy Dobby, and their planned “executive” and “general” meetings of the H.E.L.P. Society over summer. If the Ministry was still dragging their heels then, the others said they would see what they could do to help with his purchase, including helping look for a way for Harry to get more direct control over his parents’ old cottage (as that was judged better than the vacant Potter land, if Dobby had no preference of his own).

Lockhart breezed by for a very quick chat before escaping Dumbledore’s purview after exams were done, and reassured Harry that “Battles With the Basilisk” was approved for priority printing as soon as it was written. He got Harry’s name and vault number so he could deposit his share of the profits (twenty per cent, as agreed) in due course.

“It will be a busy time writing for me!” he said jovially. “You just get to sit back and relax, but I’ll be working like a house-elf for the next half a year!”

“Indeed,” said Harry, who knew _something_ of working like a house-elf himself.

“I’m sure they’ll find someone capable to replace me. Not _as_ good, but perhaps near to my skills, one can hope.”

Millicent recovered nicely from her relatively minor wound (two puncture wounds on her arm) with some Blood-Replenishing Potion and some time in bandages. She seemed to find the injury amazingly upsetting though – Harry guessed as a witch she was used to most injuries being healed instantly with magic. Usually an Episkey would suffice to heal minor wounds. Harry brought her the last of his little stockpile of women’s jewellery he’d bought last year (two gold bracelets and a blue gem pendant necklace) as a “Get well soon!” gift in the Hospital Wing, which seemed to cheer her up immensely. He felt really bad at failing so miserably as a tour guide, but she didn’t seem to bear a grudge.

“I was stupid to try opening a door without you there,” she admitted. “I’m still mad the others left though. Draco was gentlemanly about it, he said he’d never leave a lady in distress. Oh, I know he’s not sweet on me - he likes Pansy. But it was gallant of him to act so all the same, don’t you think? Of course, you’re the one who saved me, and I won’t forget that, Harry.”

“You don’t owe me that much,” Harry demurred, “because it was my fault you were in danger in the first place.” But Millicent insisted she would pay him back one day, and he politely conceded the point. A favour owed could be useful, after all.

***

Harry was more nervous of ghosts and portraits ever since seeing what Tom’s spirit was capable of. Harry had enlisted Hermione’s excellent researching skills to help him find out what they could about the topic, but there was a paucity of information available. Madam Pince said that some of their books on magical art were indefinitely loaned to Beauxbatons years ago when Hogwarts ceased teaching it as a subject.

“I would recommend _Artes Magiae_ by Miroslava Kadlec as one of the definitive works on magical art and the process of portrait creation,” said Madam Pince, charmed by Harry’s manner in deferring to her expert knowledge (and regular polite patronage of her library). “However, copies are few and highly priced, and translations from the original Latin even fewer. I suspect if we had a copy once that it would now be part of the library collection of Beauxbatons, since they still teach Crafting as a separate subject. You may find a few books on the topic in the Ancient Runes section.” Harry did have a browse under Ancient Runes, but didn’t find anything on magical art, sadly.

Hermione had been looking for information on ghosts. “Since Ghoul Studies was cancelled as a subject a decade ago, the library collection has apparently been greatly reduced in its coverage of ghosts and other necromantic topics,” Hermione said, eagerly getting out her notes. “I did manage to find out that their presence makes candle flames burn blue, that Hogwarts is the most haunted building in the United Kingdom despite what they say about the Tower of London, and that they lower the ambient temperature of the room they’re inhabiting. I couldn’t find anything about how far they can haunt away from their place of death, which was very frustrating, but it seems commonly assumed their range is limited.”

Hermione and Harry worked on his “wonderfully scientific” project to find out how far ghosts could travel, aided by Moaning Myrtle and Sir Nick. The latter had been eventually un-petrified by some means at Hogwarts, as he was never sent on to St. Mungo’s, and was very grateful to hear of Harry’s “brave deeds” in aiding Lockhart to slay the Basilisk that had attacked him. After some tabulation of results, they found that the ghosts were most comfortable in the area they had laid claim to haunt (in Sir Nick’s case, Gryffindor tower was his preferred residence). The further away they went, the less comfortable they felt, and Myrtle found it more difficult than Sir Nick to travel further. He speculated that this may be because she’d chosen to haunt the very place she died.

“That does evoke an exceedingly puissant attachment, whereas I instead returned to dwell where I had found most happiness during my life, rather than stay at that woeful chopping block at the Tower of London.”

Myrtle found it almost impossible to leave the castle, just barely managing to enter the grounds, while Sir Nick found his limit was half way to Hogsmeade.

“Beyond that limit I felt an odd call to go south, and ‘twould be inconvenient in the extreme to find myself suddenly drawn to London, and accidentally forsake my duty as Gryffindor’s most beloved spirit! I dared not journey further.”

By Harry’s best estimate, the diary’s location in the middle of the Forbidden Forest should be far away enough that the spirit, already weakened by its silk wrapping (and the apparently very big rock placed on top of the place it was buried, according to Dobby) and tied to the book, should be unable to venture anywhere near Hogwarts. It should be safe there while he researched and planned what to do with it. And mustered up the courage to travel into the dangerous forest in search of a book that might try to possess him. He wasn’t going to do that until he was ready for it.

He had another thing that was more urgently bothering him. A series of nagging thoughts that wouldn’t go away. Tom had said things that made it sound like if he possessed Lockhart, the body would start to rot. A bit like… Professor Quirrell, perhaps. Was Quirrell possessed? Was something trying to take control of him, or, had a spirit already done so? Were the Headmaster’s claims that Quirrell was serving the Dark Lord in some way true? Did he know something he wasn’t sharing? If Tom had made one diary, might he have made more – perhaps one had ensnared Professor Quirrell? Yet Tom and Quirrell couldn’t be more different, apart perhaps for the way they twirled their wand when talking. Professor Quirrell had been nothing but kind to him even when it wouldn’t gain him anything, while Tom was willing to sacrifice multiple lives to gain a more permanent possession of Lockhart. If Quirrell was being influenced, it clearly wasn’t complete. But… if he _was_ possessed by part of the spirit of the Dark Lord, and it was in need of a new body, the Philosopher’s Stone would no doubt aid that goal. Harry wanted to talk it over with someone, but didn’t know who to trust - who would tell him the truth without panicking about his questions (like his friends would), or betraying his secrets (as the teachers surely would)? So he just worried about it to himself, and read over his old letters from Quirrell obsessively, looking for clues to his condition, hoping to disprove his own theory.

Hermione eventually caught him reading one in the library one day, and peered over his shoulder to see what it was.

“What’s-” she started, but finished with a yelp as the letter immediately burst into a flash of blue flames and crumbled to ash in Harry’s hands.

Harry didn’t even have time to drop it, and stared open-mouthed as a trickle of ash fell through his fingers to make a little pile on top of his book on magical maladies. “It… it… was some private correspondence. I guess… it was enchanted. Or cursed. So that no-one else could read it except for me.” His eyes stung a bit. He told himself it was just some ash that must’ve gotten in his eyes.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright,” he mumbled sadly. “I didn’t know either.”

“Was it something important?” she worried.

“I said it’s alright!!” Harry said loudly and crossly, and shook the ash off his book and reshelved it, before stomping moodily off to his dorm room, leaving Hermione standing there in the library looking after him indecisively. He wrote out a copy of the letter as best he could remember it, including the encouraging things Quirrell had said about his studies, and carefully filed it away with the others, with a sad sniffle. It wasn’t the same though. He knew he’d forgotten bits of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an idea of what Slytherin’s study with the scroll storage section would look like, see http://members.optusnet.com.au/~pelari/potter/Scroll-Storage-Alexandria.jpg.
> 
> The author Miroslava’s name and interest in art comes from a suggestion by Hermione J Krum. You can see a moment in her life as a young girl in one of my other fics - “Christmas Magic”.
> 
> Thanks to my reviewer History whose comment reminded me that McGonagall really should apologise to Harry for not listening to him.
> 
> Now, you want to know what’s coming next, right? Well, the FINAL chapter of this fic will be posted this Friday morning (10th June 2016). At the same time, I will also be posting the FIRST chapter of the next fic in the “Perfectly Normal” series, so please pop by to check out “An Abnormal Godfather”! If you enjoy it, please favourite, subscribe, leave kudos, and/or write a comment. :)
> 
> Now for the bad news. :( That fic is *not* finished. I’m still writing it. That means *no* updates for at least a couple of months while I finish writing it (thus why subscribing will help you not lose track of it).
> 
> All is not lost, however! While you wait (with more or less patience) for more of this series to be written and posted, I hope I shall keep you entertained once a week on Friday mornings (Australian time), as I post a few other new stories. 17th and 24th of June will each have a new standalone Harry Potter fic posted for your enjoyment. And from 1st July onwards (hotel wifi on holidays allowing) there will be a longer multi-chapter Harry Potter/Pokemon crossover fic (set in the HP world) posted, with a new chapter each week for a couple of months (it’s almost finished, should be 8 chapters). You can subscribe to me as an author (or to just this series as a whole, if you're not interested in other fics but love this one), if you want to be extra sure you don’t miss out on any stories.
> 
> Thanks to all my awesome readers who left me a review since the last chapter was posted! Much love and thanks to: stuckunderwater, mackiechandler, Stargirl1061, mwinter1, sh777, Annasfanfic, LokiFirefox, charm13insomnia, A_Boleyn, promethea999, Im Not Itachi, picnic990, Mac4japan, 01asdf, Arvi, Nanettez, Toraach, alaynestoneheart, Makurayami Ookami, LtsHrIt4ThSPNBoyz, thatperfectsomeone, Wife of RJMP3, sephonered, SkySamuelle, AerieAerie, Lairenna.
> 
> And hello and thanks to those who won’t read this author’s note until Friday, because they’re caching my fic to read once the last chapter is posted! Best wishes to Kisaki Sakura, and MrsH. :)


	27. Meetings and Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry explores the Chamber of Secrets some more, makes a new friend, and has a very uncomfortable conversation with Snape, before heading home on the Hogwarts Express.

**_June 1993_ **

Harry didn’t tell anyone, since it was public knowledge (announced by Dumbledore at dinner weeks ago) that the Chamber of Secrets was sealed and warded, but he’d gone back to the Chamber to explore it some when he could grab a spare hour or two unobserved in the last couple of weeks before school closed for the summer. He’d thought about telling Neville and Hermione about the second entrance, but decided against it. Firstly, because when he asked Millicent, she said she _hadn’t_ told Madam Pomfrey or any other teacher about being bitten in the Chamber of Secrets – she’d claimed her injury was from a summoned snake in a practise duel that got out of hand. So he’d initially guessed the Headmaster had gathered his gossip in a less direct fashion – like those ever-watching portraits, perhaps. But when he chatted about it with the Gryffindors Hermione mentioned she’d told Professor McGonagall about it, during a chat about her study schedule for next year.

“She was really curious to hear all about the Chamber of Secrets, and of _course_ she wouldn’t tell any students about it.”

“But I said not to tell anyone else!”

“Oh, yes, but she’s a _teacher_ ,” Hermione said, as if that was all the explanation and apology required. She was a good friend most of the time, but every so often she really got on his nerves.

His other reason for staying quiet was simply that he really didn’t want to risk anyone else getting hurt. If word got out, then either people would want to go with him (which could be dangerous) or the Headmaster would hear about it and seal up the second entrance too (which would be very annoying – it was going to be a great area for privately practising spells next year).

He found another secret passage after careful scrutiny of the study. He looked carefully at every single section of the diamond pattern of cavities on the wall for storing scrolls in, and found a small stone snake hiding at the back of one. Harry imagined that if the cubby holes were all full of scrolls, you’d never see it at all.

“ _Greetingss, sssnake guardian,_ ” he hissed, “ _will you tell me, Harold James Potter, Heir of Ssslytherin, what sssecretss you hide?_ ”

“ _You are the Heir of Ssslytherin? What of young Master Riddle?_ ” This snake seemed more wary of his claim than most of the others. The ones in the dungeon he suspected had never even been found by anyone else in a long time, given how excited they’d been to see him.

“ _He is dead these many yearss._ ”

“ _He might have a ghost,_ ” Storm added, perhaps not very helpfully. “ _But it is a weak shade and my master defeated it in a duel._ ”

“ _A ghost cannot be an Heir. Are you hiss ssson?_ ”

What a horrible thought. “ _No, definitely not. I believe my Ssslytherin heritage must come from a more winding path._ ”

Still the snake hesitated. “ _Does he have a ssson?_ ” it asked. “ _A daughter?_ ”

“ _Not that I have heard of._ ” It hissed unhappily.

“ _Then I sssuppose I must let you past, Master Potter. Yet be warned, young ssscion, what liess within is one of Master Ssslytherin’ss preciouss ancient treasuress. Should you ssseek to damage it, though you be the Heir of Ssslytherin yet we shall still rise up to ssstrike you down._ ”

“ _I shall take great care,_ ” Harry said, feeling very excited about what might lie within.

“ _Now, let me bite you, for blood is the price of entrance, and venom the penalty for all otherss who may ssseek to disguise themselves in your ssseeming._ ”

“ _Isn’t there just a passs phrase like for the other snakess?_ ” Harry asked optimistically.

“ _No. I admit none but the Heirss of Ssslytherin; those gifted with the talent of Parselmouth and the foremost in their family line._ ”

Harry thought he’d better clarify his family situation, just in case, for he didn’t want to run the risk of magical venom. “ _I am foremost in my family, for my parentss and grandparentss died when I was very young; I am the Heir to the Noble House of Potter, and will be Head when I am of age._ ”

It didn’t respond, so he warily inserted a hand into the recess in the wall, and the tiny grey stone snake nipped a finger with its miniature fangs.

“ _Welcome, Master Potter,_ ” it hissed, and a section of wall swung open to one side.

The first thing Harry saw in the hidden room was a chair. A very ordinary, wooden chair like he sat on every day in classes. Then he saw what it was facing. If you sat in the chair, you would be directly in front of a rather intricate mosaic that had been placed on the wall. He thought it might possibly have been transferred from somewhere else, as it sat in a rectangular stone frame (rather than being embedded directly in the wall) and the edges of the mosaic were a little ragged, like a few sections of stones had been lost. Yet the central portion was intact, and depicted its scene with great detail using hundreds of tiny coloured square stone or coloured glass tiles perhaps a half centimetre across. There was an elderly man, with a grey beard and short hair, clad in a purple-bordered toga reclining (and napping) on some kind of daybed. On a small three-legged side table with decoratively scrolled legs near his couch rested a bowl of grapes and a platter of various foods including a flat round loaf of bread, olives, eggs, a wedge of cheese, and some kind of small cooked birds. Another small table held a jug and a bowl. A wooden staff leaned on the wall in one of the two corners of the room in the painting, and in the other stood a lampstand which held a couple of lit lamps, and it was the flickering movements of the light from those that led Harry to notice that the mosaic was enchanted to move, like a magical portrait.

He cautiously stepped into the room, wary of the large man-sized snake statues in each corner of the small room.

“ _Greetings, the Heir of Ssslytherin seeks admittance,_ ” he hissed cautiously. “ _I mean no harm to the treasure in thiss room._ ” The statues didn’t respond, but did turn to look at him. They were the quietest statues he’d found yet.

He moved in front of the mosaic, and sat down in the chair slowly, wand at the ready in case of trouble, but carefully _not_ pointed at the mosaic, in case it make the snake gargoyles panic.

“Hello? Sir?” he said, but there was no response. Very slowly and carefully, he reached out to tap lightly on the bottom of the frame around the mosaic – it was how you woke up a slumbering portrait so he thought it might be alright. And luckily, the statues seemed to find it within acceptable parameters for behaviour, for they didn’t do anything except watch him.

The man in the mosaic woke, blinking tiredly out at him, then smiling with delight as he realised he had a visitor. The shifting colours of the mosaic tiles made for a less realistic depiction than an oil painting was capable of, but there was so many tiny tiles that a great deal of detail could still be made out.

“Ƿesaþ hale! Mē līcode þeċ tō grētenne. Hwæt is þīn nama?” [1]

“Uh, hello, sir. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you said.”

The man gave a rueful little chuckle, shook his head and tried again, in another language that was also unintelligible to Harry, but which sounded a bit like some of the incantations for magical spells. “Mea culpa. Salve! Loquerisne inlingua Latina? Quid est nomen tibi?” [2]

“Do you speak English at all? Or French or Spanish? Parlez-vous français? ¿Habla español?” [3] Harry thought it doubtful, but worth a try.

“Si voles, loquere lentius,” [4] the man said in a chiding tone of voice, wagging his finger at Harry. “Spraec thu Ænglisc? Eallníwe Ænglisc? Loquerisne Angle?” [5]

“Yes! English!” Harry said, nodding exagerratedly and smiling happily.

“In Latine loquor,” the man said very slowly, tapping his chest. “Latine.” [6]

“Oh! You speak _Latin_! Of _course_ you do, with the toga and all.” He tried to think of what Latin phrases he knew that weren’t part of a spell. “Cogito ergo sum? Ave? Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus?” he volunteered hesitantly. [7]

“Bene!” the man said, and gave him a little clap. “Debes discere Latinam.” [8]

“ _I don’t sssuppose you are a Parselmouth?_ ” hissed Harry optimistically. “ _It would make thiss discussion a lot easier._ ”

“Salassar Slytherin? Est antecessoris tui?” The man shook his head. “Nihil, non poteo loqui serpente.” [9]

Well, he clearly recognised Parseltongue, which was unsurprising for someone who might have known Salazar Slytherin himself (or at least some of his descendants), but he obviously couldn’t speak it.

After a little period of pointing and naming objects slowly they managed to exchange names, and Harry also introduced his snake. Storm sulkily found the animated mosaic much more boring than the chattier of the animated snake statues. Harry learnt the man was called Ambrosius Aurelianus, and he must have been a wizard, for he picked up the staff in the corner, and with a short period of chanting and gesturing (that clearly took some effort and brought a tired look to his face), managed to make his couch float up into the air. He looked expectantly at Harry and made encouraging gestures, while talking indecipherably in Latin.

Harry got out his wand to show the man, and he nodded, looking pleased.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ” Harry incanted, floating the wooden chair up into the air easily, and making it spin around in an upwards spiral.

Ambrosius gasped and applauded wildly, seeming very impressed. “Ecce! Mirabilis!” [10]

Harry didn’t think it was anything very special, but he guessed the man wasn’t a particularly good wizard, back in his day.

He bowed politely to the wizard, and then did his best with gestures and waving to show that he had to go now. The man looked disappointed and sighed. Harry thought he must be quite lonely, stuck down beneath the school in a hidden room. At least the portraits upstairs got to visit each other.

“Valé Harry! Se tueas!” Ambrosius said, sounding politely resigned. [11] He waved goodbye in imitation of Harry, then settled back down on his reclining couch, rested his head on the pillow on the raised scroll-like section at one end. He appeared to be settling back down to sleep.

Harry added “Learn Latin” to his study planner that evening for his summer activities, along with French. He hoped the _Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages_ wasn’t too expensive. Tracey had a subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ , as he discovered the next day when he asked around about who might have a copy he could look at, and he sent off a letter asking for pricing details for their language learning courses, and for information about where and how they were held over summer.

He mentioned to Neville and Hermione casually one day that he’d come across a reference to an old Roman wizard named Ambrosius Aurelianus in a book, and asked if they had ever heard of him, but the name didn’t ring a bell for either of them, and he couldn’t find it in a few history books he checked. He didn’t bother checking _Hogwarts, A History_. Hermione had that memorised, so if she didn’t recognise the wizard’s name he mustn’t be in there.

***

End of year results came out for all the students in the last week of school, only a few days before they would all be catching the Hogwarts Express to speed (or slow) them on their journey home. Harry had gotten an implausibly high percentage result on his Charms exam (did they even know how percentages _worked_ here?), and a personal smiling congratulations from Professor Flitwick for coming top of the year. Hermione looked very pleased when she heard he’d gotten an O, and was full of squealing congratulations, but looked flabbergasted and jealous when she heard he’d gotten the top mark in their year. She plastered on a smile though, and did her best to be politely congratulatory, which Harry appreciated. She certainly took being beaten better than Dudley ever did, and better than he’d feared she might (he’d even worried he might lose her friendship over it). Mind you it must have been a comfort to her that she had, after all, come top in many _other_ subjects (though not Herbology which went to Neville, or Potions which went to Draco, to his smug delight). Harry was anxious to know how he’d gone in his Muggle subjects, but final results for those would be sent out over the holidays to his home address.

It was a small gathering in the library with just Harry, Hermione, Millicent, Draco, and Goyle. Goyle had been “Gregory” to Hermione for a while now, but only recently switched to a first name basis with Harry after Draco pointed out that he needed to explicitly ask or tell Goyle if he wanted to be friends (Draco thought it would be a good idea), as Goyle sometimes had trouble guessing such things. Also, that as the more high status wizard it was Harry’s responsibility to make such overtures in any case – for one of lower station to ask to use another’s first name could sometimes be seen as presumptuous and rude.

After a bit of trial and error Harry had found that Hermione seemed to get on best lately with the group of Slytherins Harry had carefully gathered today (he’d thought Tracey as a half-blood would get on better with her, but they just didn’t work well together for some reason he hadn’t figured out yet). Draco in particular was studiously polite to her, at least whenever Harry was watching him, though it seemed all bets were now off in regards to Draco’s behaviour around Ron. It had taken him a while to notice, as Neville never said anything about it, but Neville didn’t like socialising with Draco if he could help it. He was carefully and quietly polite, but not actually friendly with him. He got on better with Pansy and Tracey, though.

Millicent quizzed Harry curiously on his grades, and was interested to note how he’d gone up in a couple of subjects, and down in DADA. “Why did your grade go down? I thought Lockhart liked you?” she asked one afternoon.

“I don’t think he studied very much for that subject,” Hermione volunteered, in regards to Harry’s grades.

“It’s true – I just didn’t want to memorise all those details about his ah, adventures. I preferred Professor Quirrell,” he said, looking a bit mournful. “Of course his stammer made classes difficult, but the textbook and the lessons were much more practical. An EE is probably more than I deserved, this year.”

“I’m sure he marked everyone fairly. You earned that grade!” Hermione said encouragingly. Millicent just smiled with amusement, working hard not to laugh. “I can’t believe you did so well in bringing up your grades this year, especially Charms and Potions, when you had your other studies to juggle too,” Hermione continued. “Of course, you do take remarkably good notes now. That _must_ have helped when it came time to revise!”

“Isn’t she just the loveliest font of information?” mused Millicent to Draco, who nodded in agreement. “What other studies would those be, Harry?”

“Didn’t you ever tell them?” Hermione asked quizzically.

“I guess I didn’t? I didn’t think they’d be very interested, so I suppose the topic just never came up,” he shrugged and turned to the Slytherins. “I’m doing some Muggle subjects, so I have proper qualifications and skills to go to university in the Muggle world after graduation, if I want to,” he explained to them.

“What have you been studying?” Draco asked curiously.

“English, Maths, and Science. By correspondence, of course.”

“And he’s been keeping up with French, just to help his cousin with his studies, which I think is kind of him,” added Hermione. “I’ve been practising with him, here and there.”

Draco proudly showed off his superior French by chatting with a delighted Hermione, losing Harry quite often in the conversation as he simply wasn’t up to their level.

“Why are you studying English?” asked Gregory as the others nattered in French to each other (though Draco seemed more fluent than Hermione, and much better than Millicent). “You’re really smart, and you speak and write it already. Do you need to work on your spelling? I find it really hard. I have a dictionary to help me - my father got it for me. You can borrow it for the holidays if you like.”

“Oh, that’s very kind, but I don’t need one thank you. The subject isn’t covering spelling, it’s all about how to improve your writing of essays, doing analyses of books and plays, and interpreting and writing poetry. That kind of thing. One of my final assignments was to write a short essay discussing how in Shakespeare’s _The Tempest_ how some particular lines spoken by Ferdinand and Miranda showed their feelings for each other.”

“That sounds easy,” grunted Gregory.

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than it sounds. Like asking what steps can cause problems with a Swelling Solution. You can give a short answer, or a more complete one.”

“That was a tough one on the test,” he grumbled. “I wrote, ‘Don’t add the wrong things that aren’t ingredients’, and ‘Don’t let someone put something in your cauldron.’”

Hermione looked quietly embarrassed to overhear that, remembering the firework that she and Ron had used as a distraction so she could purloin some potions ingredients for their Polyjuice Potion.

“What about Maths? How much more could you need to learn?” Gregory asked.

“There’s still quite a lot to learn, though it is one of my favourite subjects. This year covered things like calculating the area of a trapezium or the volume of a prism, using algebra to solve simple simultaneous equations, converting fractions to decimals without using a calculator. Lots of fun stuff.”

“I don’t even know what most of those words mean,” Gregory said, sounding bewildered, “and I thought I was good at maths. You must be doing some really complicated maths.”

Harry laughed, though not unkindly. “Well, Hogwarts doesn’t teach it! So it’s not surprising it’s unfamiliar. It’s very useful for a lot of Muggle stuff, though. And I have to say I’m still impressed by how easily some wizards and witches can calculate sickles and knuts for change in their heads, when shopping.”

“I can do that,” Gregory said happily, looking more content.

“And are you learning Muggle subjects too?” Draco asked Hermione.

“No, I’m committed to staying in the wizarding world,” she explained. “And I want to get the absolute best marks I can on all my subjects so I’m more competitive for Ministry positions when I graduate. If I tried to do both, it would split my focus too much, my parents and I decided.”

“Ambitious,” he said approvingly, with a nod. While he always tried to be polite, it was the most complimentary he’d ever been to her and earned him a big toothy smile, which seemed to startle him.

His friends weren’t the only ones interested in Harry’s grades. With only two days to go before the end of school, Snape ordered him to stay after class. Neville hesitated and gave Harry an enquiring look, but left at Harry’s reassuring nod and request to wait outside for him. So long as he could avoid eye contact Harry thought he would be alright.

“An A for Potions, as requested. Your brewing in the second half of this year has been… quite acceptable.”

Harry nodded politely, watching Snape’s chin and nose as much as possible. “Was my performance on the written exam satisfactory, sir?”

“As I did not specify the standard required for written work, it will do. Next year, I expect you to write essays and exams to an Exceeds Expectations level, and to continue with your high standard of brewing.”

Harry smiled a little. That was an actual compliment. Snape had slipped up there.

“Your Charms exam went well, I heard.”

“Yes, sir. As you demanded. I studied very hard for it the past month.”

“Not so, Potter. To reach the level of proficiency you reportedly attained in your practical examination would have required a more extensive period of practice than the timing of our little chat allowed for. And apparently you exceeded the level of proficiency routinely displayed in your Charms class, as I suggested to Flitwick you might be able to if pushed.”

Harry scowled. He _knew_ it had been Snape’s fault. “I just tried really hard. I do better under pressure than in a classroom setting.”

Snape leaned back in his chair and steepled his long, potion-stained fingers in front of his mouth. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“Underperforming. What is it you fear about excelling in class? I assure you I shall be most circumspect and keep your answer entirely confidential.”

“Why do you even care? I’m not the Heir of Slytherin, you know. I might be able to speak to snakes, but apart from that I’m no-one special,” Harry grumbled. “Is it a ‘Boy Who Lived’ thing? Because I’d rather just be left alone to do my own thing.”

“A little more respect, thank you. And to answer your questions… or _accusations_ , I am interested because… your mother Lily and I were friends once. Good friends. And I think she would be appalled to see you wasting your potential in such a pointlessly sly fashion. What do you hope to accomplish with such a deception?”

Harry went still and quiet. “Do you… really think she would be angry?”

“More sad, perhaps. Disappointed. But angry at whomever or whatever was behind your decision to hide your talents. She could erupt like an angry volcano when she thought an injustice was being done. You thought she was so sweetly spoken, until that last thing would tip her over the edge into raging about the injustices of the world.”

“Hermione’s a bit like that,” Harry mused.

“There are some similarities,” Snape conceded politely, albeit with a grimace. “Though your mother was more humble - she didn’t feel the need to show off quite so much. She didn’t understand anyone not living up to their potential, however.”

“I just want to be normal,” said Harry quietly. “Have a normal life, fit in with everyone. Make people happy.”

“That’s a rather pathetic reason to underperform,” sneered Snape, instantly making Harry regret sharing and provoking him into retaliating verbally, all prickly like a hedgehog.

“You don’t understand! When I used to beat Dudley at school I’d be punished for it!” he yelled angrily. “They don’t… they don’t care so much about my Hogwarts grades. They even want me to do better at school, because they think then I won’t do accidental magic anymore.”

“Then why not excel at _all_ your classes?”

“People will thinking I’m cheating. It’s happened before. It happened with _you_. So don’t say it wouldn’t,” Harry said, cutting off a potential line of argument before it could start. “People _already_ talk about me, some have said and written horrible things about me with less evidence than _that_ would give them.”

“You want to be normal. Unremarkable.”

“Yes.”

“I suspect you don’t truly know what normal is, despite your efforts to imitate it, Potter.”

“I do,” Harry said stubbornly.

“You _don’t_ ,” Snape said with exasperation. “Let me tell you a story. One which you would be _very wise_ not to repeat to _anyone_. When I was young, I lived with my mother, who was a witch, and my father, a Muggle. Who drank. Heavily. He was… a nasty drunk. When he was deep in his cups he would swear viciously at us, the most hurtful things he could summon up. And… he was violent towards my mother. Myself too, sometimes. We thought it was normal. It came to be normal for us, little by little as things got worse. Until neither of us remembered it ever being different. And didn’t other fathers drink? Didn’t we cause him so much trouble we drove him to it? It seemed to me that all men drank, in that town.

“It was only once I started talking to others at Hogwarts, cautiously, about their families that I realised – my father wasn’t normal at all. That his actions were something others would not only fail to condone – that he and his behaviours were instead viewed with disgust and derision. My family wasn’t normal, and it didn’t need to be that way. It _shouldn’t_ be that way. You think other children are so scared of the consequences of _good_ grades that they need to hide their prowess and their other talents? That other children are used to labouring as you are? Punished as you are? Ask around. Look around. Turn that cunning mind of yours on analysing your own situation.”

Harry was silent. It was a sad story. But surely… the Dursleys weren’t _that_ bad… unless he’d done something wrong… except for the cupboard. But that was his own fault. Wasn’t it? Maybe meals were still an issue, but he preferred that to being fat like Dudley anyway. Besides, things were better now, and he didn’t get punished when he behaved well – it wasn’t a problem. He had it all under control.

“I think… I made things hard for them sometimes, being different,” he said, wanting to share _something_ since Snape had opened up to him so obviously painfully.

“My father used to blame me too. Taught me to blame myself for all the family’s ills. ‘If you weren’t such a little freak, you could go ter a normal school, an’ we wouldn’t be so goddamned poor!’” Snape assumed a working class Brummie accent to quote his father, evoking the disgust and blame his father had once directed at him.

Harry flinched at his words, hunching into himself slightly. The accent was wrong, but the rest of it sounded almost like something Uncle Vernon would say.

“They’re normal. _I’m_ normal. Everything’s fine, and better than it used to be. There’s nothing wrong,” he said with fake sincerity. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll work harder in classes next year.”

“Yes. I said things like that a lot too,” Snape said softly. “Things were always fine. Off you go then, if you’re not ready to talk. Perhaps I’m not the right person. But… look around. See what other families do. And Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Make your mother proud.”

Harry flinched, and started to scurry out of the room before the mention of his mother reminded him that he had something to say to Snape, and may as well do so in person rather than in a letter.

The goblins had finally written a tardy response to him a week ago, politely gloating that he’d blocked access for anyone except himself or Neville to remove items from his vault. And thus the two items he’d requested to be sent to bequest recipients couldn’t be distributed by them. He paused half way to the door, and turned to Snape. “Before I go sir, I just wanted to say that as I’m having a little trouble with my vault access at the moment, I will retrieve my mother’s bequest to you over summer. So you should have it at the start of next year as I’d rather not send something that fragile by owl, anyway.”

Snape went as still as a statue. “What?”

“Your bequest in the will – the crystal lily. I managed to get access to Potter Cottage, so I’ve retrieved it. I have no idea why Dumbledore as executor didn’t manage to do so in the past. But perhaps it’s because it’s been locked down as a family property, or a historical landmark,” he added politely as an afterthought, mindful of his audience. “In any case, I’d be happy to pass on her gift. If you still want it.”

Snape seemed frozen. “I was in her will?” he asked softly. His enunciation seemed overly careful.

“You didn’t know? My parents had a joint will, by the way. There was a message for you from mum, saying she forgave you for something you said, and-”

A couple of vials of potions spontaneously exploded on Snape’s desk, making Harry reflexively duck for cover and protect his head. One of the glass shards flew up to lodge in Snape’s cheek. He didn’t even flinch, he was busy staring at Harry – or into his eyes. Harry glanced away.

“Forgive me… those were, ah, rather volatile potions,” Snape said in a strained voice. Oily green potions dripped slowly off the desk onto the floor. “I should have taken more care with their storage.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry nervously. Those potions weren’t at _all_ volatile. “I’ll ah, write out a copy of her message for you when I bring the little lily statue, alright?”

“That would be appreciated,” Snape said very carefully.

“Sorry if I upset you, sir,” Harry said warily. “I didn’t mean to bring up any bad memories. I apologise if I phrased things poorly.”

“Oh, it’s not you who’s upset me. Not you,” Snape said with a note of bitterness in his voice.

He was still sitting there with glass lodged in his cheek and blood running down his face while Harry backed towards the door slowly and fled the room.

***

Harry didn’t want to think about what Snape had said, but he did, all the same. And he informally polled all his friends about what kinds of chores they did, and for how many hours. He even made a bar graph of the results. Draco did the least – the minimal amount of effort he exerted in putting his dirty laundry in a basket could hardly be counted as a chore, by Harry’s reckoning. Even Dudley managed that much, most of the time. Neville was second after Harry due to his work in the family’s greenhouse, and the margin of difference was noticeable, even with Harry’s bargained reduction in chores he’d arranged with Dudley.

Harry asked Hermione what level of medical care she’d expect her parents to organise if she had glasses and an intolerance to the lactose in dairy. Yearly check-ups with specialists wasn’t something he’d expected as an answer, and she was worried to hear he hadn’t had any dental check-ups except once in early primary school. “Tooth decay _is_ a problem for wizards sometimes, Harry.”

“I know, but I don’t want to be a burden on the Dursleys, and I don’t eat a lot of sweets and my teeth aren’t bothering me, so-”

“You’ll come and visit my parents’ practice, Harry,” she pronounced sternly, interrupting him. “They’ll give you a check-up for free, I’m sure. If they knew you’d saved me from a troll, I know it would be free dental work for life.”

“I guess you’re not going to tell them about being petrified, either?”

“No. I’ve told you before - they’d worry too much if they knew how dangerous Hogwarts could be. I don’t want them to pull me out! So for example with the troll I… well I told them you and Neville bravely saved me from a big bully.” Harry reflected that the Dursleys wouldn’t pull him out. He’d _told_ them at the start of the year about Dobby’s foreboding vague warnings about an evil wizard wanting to kill him, but they hadn’t been bothered that McGonagall had refused to let him home school his magical studies, and wanted him back at Hogwarts.

He already knew from previous conversations the kinds of soft punishments some other kids got for things like kitchen accidents. Except for Neville, no-one seemed to have parents or relatives who scolded or hit them very much. Though he wasn’t completely sure about Draco. His constant worrying about what his father would think of things seemed a little odd at times.

Still, life was what it was. And he didn’t have anywhere else to live, so he had to deal with the hand he was dealt, and make the best of a not _too_ bad situation. He decided philosophically that even if his family wasn’t the best of families, it could always be worse. At least he didn’t have a great-uncle who dropped him out of windows. Snape should really be worrying about _that_ , not about Harry.

On the train ride back to London they made quite a merry little group of Gryffindors and were joined by Percy and Ginny Weasley, and also (for a little while) the Ravenclaw prefect Penelope Clearwater who apparently was Percy’s girlfriend! Fred, George, and Ron all stopped by their compartment to say hello during the journey, as did Alice Tolipan, with a friend in tow. The Slytherin girls stopped by together, being carefully and pointedly polite to Hermione in congratulating her on her good grades before they left. Draco visited as well, though seemed taken aback to find their compartment contaminated by Weasleys. He stiffly reminded Harry that he wished to open a correspondence with him over summer, which Harry politely agreed to, writing down his address for Draco. He raised his eyebrow enquiringly and glanced at Gregory and Crabbe, and Draco responded to his unspoken question.

“They don’t write unless they have to,” he volunteered. “So there’s no offence meant there – they’re just not diligent correspondents. They won’t write to me either.”

Harry nodded and smiled, and the two hulking boys looked relieved.

Harry had a little project he worked on periodically as they travelled through the countryside – he was making a map. When he saw a town or notable landscape feature, he jotted it down in a notebook, along with the time. Leaving Hogsmeade Station they went south for about an hour at a thundering pace, through an unpopulated and mountainous region of the Scottish Highlands, and then seemed to join a Muggle railway at Stanley, then continued south through Luncarty and Perth. With Neville’s borrowed pocket watch, after that he timed how long it took to go from one major Muggle railway station to another, so he could calculate later how fast the train must be going. When asked, he explained that he was trying to figure out where Hogwarts was located.

“Apart from in Scotland?” asked Hermione.

“Yes, more precisely than that would be good. I’d like to know what the nearest town is. Nearest _Muggle_ town,” he clarified, fending off the anticipated comments about Hogsmeade. “Next year we get to leave the school grounds, after all! It would be nice to go and see a movie on weekends, for instance. I just wish I knew how to Apparate. But the theory is bewilderingly lacking in detail and I haven’t been game to practise on my own lest I ‘Splinch’ and lose a body part or two.”

“You’re much too young to be licensed, anyway,” said Percy pompously. “You have to be seventeen, or nearly. But your time will come, Harry. And I don’t believe you’re allowed to visit anywhere except Hogsmeade.”

“Mmm hmm,” Harry said noncommittedly, with an outward appearance of agreement.

Soon enough they had reached King's Cross Station, and all walked through the gateway back to the normal world. Time for a relaxing break from the weird and the wonderful. Not counting the sleeping magical snake hidden in his robe pocket. Or visiting Neville’s manor for their H.E.L.P. meetings, or going to the summer fundraiser for St. Mungo’s. Or the magical language school he was hoping to enrol in, or another visit to the Ministry to talk about buying a house-elf, and permanently securing his parents’ cottage. Alright. Maybe there would still be a _bit_ of magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the last chapter for this fic! But the “Perfectly Normal” series continues with “An Abnormal Godfather”, so please pop by to check out chapter one, which should be up by the time you reach this author’s note! If you enjoy it, please follow, favourite, subscribe, leave kudos, write reviews or comments, etc., according to what website you’re reading it on.
> 
> Now for the bad news. :( That fic is *not* finished. I’m still writing it. That means *no* updates for at least a couple of months while I finish writing it (thus why subscribing/following is advised to help you not lose track of it).
> 
> All is not lost, however! While you wait (with more or less patience) for more of this series to be written and posted, I hope I shall keep you entertained once a week on Friday mornings (Australian time), as I post a few other new stories. 17th and 24th of June will each have a new standalone Harry Potter fic posted for your enjoyment. And from 1st July onwards (hotel wifi on holidays allowing) there will be a longer multi-chapter Harry Potter/Pokemon crossover fic (set in the HP world) posted, with a new chapter each week for a couple of months (it’s almost finished, should be 8 chapters). You can subscribe to/follow me as an author, if you want to be extra sure you don’t miss out on any stories.
> 
> This is the last chapter! If you haven’t clicked to leave kudos, now is a great time to do so if you enjoyed the story (if you’ve already left kudos, it’ll just tell you – I won’t get double kudos by mistake). Comments are always extremely welcome and loved, too.
> 
> ***
> 
> Thanks again to my Britpicker, Jennybeth98! *Mwah*! I do my best to stick with British spelling choices, and then she went over this fic double checking for me in case I missed something. She is also cheerfully on call to answer the occasional question about word choice I throw out to her. Thanks!
> 
> Latin phrases and translations originally provided by websites such as Omniglot, NovaRoma and Google Translate have been edited for accuracy by “My blue rose” and her husband. Thanks very much team!
> 
> Ambrosius would be speaking a mix of Classical Latin and British Vulgar Latin (no really, that’s what it’s called), but the Latin in this fic is Classical Latin (for ease of translation accuracy).
> 
> The Old English phrases have been created with the aid of Google! Any errors are no fault of My blue rose. :) If you’re familiar with the language, and wish to offer any corrections, you’re welcome to do so.
> 
> Translations:  
> 1.[Old English] Hello, nice to meet you. What is your name?  
> 2.[Latin] My fault/mistake. Greetings/welcome! Do you speak Latin? What is your name?  
> 3.[French] Do you speak French? [Spanish] Do you speak Spanish?  
> 4.[Latin] Please speak more slowly.  
> 5.[Old English] Do you speak English? New English? [Latin] Speak English?  
> 6.[Latin] I speak Latin. Latin.  
> 7.[Latin] I think therefore I am. Hail/hello. Never tickle a sleeping dragon [Hogwarts motto].  
> 8.[Latin] Good! You need to learn Latin.  
> 9.[Latin] Salazar Slytherin? Is he your ancestor? No, I cannot speak [the language of] snake[s].  
> 10.[Latin] Behold! Astounding!  
> 11.[Latin] Farewell Harry! Take care of yourself!


End file.
